


White Rose

by OriginalCeenote



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Beast!Ororo, Beauty and the Beast femslash style - freeform, Bestiality, Bisexual Ororo Munroe, Bitchy Ororo Munroe, Cunnilingus, F/F, Fairy Tale Parody, Femslash, Frotting, Furry!, Gay Emma Frost, Group sex with household staff, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Nightmares, Nonconsensual Sex to pay a debt, Oral Sex, Prim and Proper Emma Frost, Rape, Splooshing (sex with food), The Author Is An Awful Person, The Author Regrets Nothing, wait is that correct
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2018-03-28 22:42:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 107,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3872485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An impetuous young woman finds her heart desire where she least expects it… Beauty and the Beast, done in femslash style. Ororo/Emma</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Salvage

**Author's Note:**

> I am reposting this from adultfanfiction.org. There isn't enough Ororo/Emma fic or fanart. If I had the time, I would remedy that.
> 
> Note the explicit rating and tags. There will be light moments, but this isn't fluffy. It SO ISN'T FLUFFY. If you want fluff, go read Unbecoming Behavior instead, my other Beauty and the Beast-derived tale on this site. But if you want the whole erotic, violent kit and caboodle, hang out here for this one. Here's proof-positive that I'm a sicko :)

“EMMA! Lazy wretch, get up here!”

A much put-upon sigh escaped her rosy lips. “Coming,” she called back, making her voice as conciliatory as possible. Adrienne was in one of her moods, so her book would have to wait. Emma left her laundry in the basket, half of it swaying in the morning breeze from the clothesline.

Adrienne ducked her brunette head out the upper story window. “I need my dress hemmed today! I won’t go into town stumbling over it and dragging it in the mud! Honestly! You’re no help!” she complained. “I’ll tell Father you’ve been wasting time again.” Emma was already on her way back into the house, following the sound of her sister’s shrill, nasal voice as she climbed the steps. Cordelia met her at the top and shook her head.

“I don’t know why you bother with that garbage,” she muttered. 

“Reading builds your mind,” Emma sniffed, quoting her father’s lecture to them from one night over supper.

“Could’ve fooled me. Yours is always in the clouds.” Cordelia pinched her as Emma brushed past. Emma retaliated by “accidentally” trodding upon her eldest sister’s foot. Cordelia screeched and gave chase, but Adrienne pounced first. She shoved the sewing box into Emma’s hands and gripped her slender upper arm, propelling her into the room. There, she tripped over a small ottoman and landed in an ungainly heap, unable to catch herself with her hands full. Adrienne enjoyed these casual abuses whenever their father was away from their modest cottage.

“Do it now,” Adrienne hissed. “Or I’ll make you sorry.” She flung the dress at Emma, and sourly her younger sister noticed that the hem was torn loose, stitches broken where it had been torn free from careless wear.

“That hem was fine when I did it the first time,” Emma accused. Cordelia smirked as she ran her brush through her long, dark tresses at the vanity.

“Adrienne had an accident.”

“Hush, you,” Adrienne threatened, pinching her. Emma chuckled, and Adrienne hurried forward and pinched her, too. Emma hissed and brandished the sewing shears, but Adrienne held up her hand in warning.

“I’ll tell Father. Don’t you _dare._ ”

What bothered Emma the most was the false sense of security that holding the sharp tool gave her. Adrienne was vicious and unpredictable, and she’d learned to watch her back since she was a small child. At seventeen, things hadn’t changed much, except that Emma’s father left his daughters to their own devices more now that they were old enough to look after themselves, so that he could devote himself to his travels.

It was a hard life. Her mother, Hazel, died of consumption when Emma was only five. Winston Frost was ill-equipped to deal with raising three daughters without his wife’s counsel, nurturing nature and feminine intuition. His only son, Christian, was hopeless around their humble farm, but he bore his youngest sister no ill will. Emma lived vicariously through her brother’s mischief, eyes growing wide at his tales of bar brawls and intimate indiscretions. While he did little to lighten Emma’s workload in the fields or around the house, he didn’t treat her as poorly as their sisters did.

She adored Christian, and Emma didn’t let her brother’s unconventional preferences weaken their bond. Adrienne, on the other hand, found Christian’s exploits with other men detestable.

“Be quick about it,” Adrienne finally snapped. The shears quivered in Emma’s hand. Adrienne roughly slapped them from her hand, sending them flying. “Make sure to stitch it properly, this time, and don’t make it crooked.”

Emma took the linen gown by the hearth and bent to her sewing, redoing the tiny, neat row of stitches as her sisters gossiped at the vanity. As she sewed, she let her mind wander back to the book she had to abandon about the rogue pirate captain and his ebony-sailed ship, chasing fortune by scurrilous means. She longed to see the world beyond their humble farm, even though she worried about the day she would have to leave her father behind. 

Emma longed for a life of adventure and higher education. She was naturally bright, curious, and mechanically inclined like her father, and she shunned the prospect of entering a contract of marriage that would leave her in much the same circumstances that she was now: A woman who worked in the fields, slaved away in the house, and who tended little ones with snotty noses and growling bellies. It would be no different than living out the rest of her life as her sisters’ maidservant.

Emma hung the finished gown from the peg beside the armoire and hurried back outside to the clothesline and her book, but just as she anchored the last corner of the last bed sheet, she heard Adrienne screeching at her again.

“Father said you’re to take the eggs to market!”

“You’re going into town, anyway! You can do it,” Emma argued as she shielded her eyes from the midday sun with her hand and glared up at her sister. Adrienne sneered and disappeared from the window, telling Emma that her sister wanted to bawl her out at close range. She rolled her eyes and took her time picking up the basket and extra clothespins and putting them back into the jar. Her sister tore out of the doorway, livid, and red spots of rage shone on her cheeks.

“You’re not doing anything worthwhile, anyway, except sitting around with your nose in a book,” Adrienne hissed. “I’m to meet Donald at the Wild Duck in an hour.”

“Donald Pierce?” Emma clucked her tongue. “Father hates him.”

“It doesn’t matter what Father thinks. And you won’t open your mouth if you’re smart.”

“Something you’ve never accused me of,” Emma countered, narrowing her light blue eyes. “He’ll take off running once he discovers you’ve no dowry, and that Father’s nearly penniless.”

“Father’s waiting for his luck to turn,” Adrienne insisted, but a bit of the wind left her sister’s sails.

“If it hasn’t turned by now, I can’t see it happening any time soon.” Emma retreated to the barn to feed the chooks, filling a pan with seed from a large burlap sack in the corner. “I want him to find his ship as badly as you do, but I’ve learned not to wish for what I cannot have.”

“You think you’re so wise,” Adrienne muttered. She reached out and yanked a lock of her sister’s enviably golden hair just to vex her.

“Ow!”

“Father will find his ship. Then our fortune will come back to us,” Adrienne vowed.

“You mean _his_ fortune.” Emma knew her sister still had visions of a sizable dowry dancing in her head.

“Cordy and I will be able to hold our heads up again.”

“Your nose isn’t having any such trouble.”

“Bitch.” Adrienne sighed. “It’s fine for you to live here in squalor. You’ve no prospects, anyway. You’re hardheaded as Bessie.” And Adrienne decided that she wasn’t even giving the family mule enough credit for being more pleasant than her youngest sister.

“I’ll leave this farm on my own efforts, by my own hard work,” Emma promised. “Tell Donald not to rip your skirt this time when he tries to flip it over your head.”

“OOOOOH!” Adrienne swung her open palm, but Emma quelled her with a look.

“ _Don’t_ get ahead of yourself, sister.” Adrienne felt as well as heard her sister’s voice, in her ears and inside the chambers of her mind, and she shivered. Lightning seemed to spark in Emma’s eyes, and her lips were mulishly thin. She felt a chill in her belly that traveled up her spine. Adrienne backed away, but she glared at Emma.

“Get a fair price on those eggs. Father’s depending on it.” She flounced out of the barn, hoping that Emma wouldn’t notice how she sped up as she reached the house. Emma snickered under her breath.

“Coward.”

*

Winston searched the shoreline with a battered collapsible scope, searching for signs of wreckage and his trademark white sails. The day already felt fruitless, and he’d only been out on the beach for two hours following his meager breakfast of tea and a stale biscuit. The day was cold and breezy, and he stifled a curse at the drafts that worked their way up under his old, battered coat. For days, he’d combed the shore and come up with next to nothing from the remains of his ship. Bandits, gleaners and squatters had already been there, looting the ruined hull of all of its treasures – his goods – leaving his hopes of regaining his fortune dashed. 

“Damn it,” he muttered as he tucked the scope back into its case. His daughters would be so disappointed. He hated to return to the farm with more bad news.

Emma would welcome him home with open arms; of that, he had no doubt. Cordelia and Adrienne, on the other hand… Winston sighed. He knew his two older daughters were spoiled, and while Christian didn’t share his sisters’ avarice, he was hardly a model son, justifying Winston’s belief that he wasn’t destined to remain a simple farmer. After all, a man who worked the land needed to have big, strong sons to handle the plow and take the reins after he passed. Christian was a born hedonist, almost as pretty and useless as Adrienne and Cordelia, even though he made weak attempts to conceal his exploits.

The tide didn’t turn in Winston’s favor the night he learned two of his ships sank on their way back from the Indies. Hundreds of pounds worth of silks, teas, hemp, perfumes, blown glass and jewels went down with the first when it was boarded by pirates. Three of Winston’s couriers were brutally dispatched and the boat was left washed ashore, stripped of lumber and sails. He gave up hope for the second after three weeks went by with no word or sign of it at the docks.

He was nearly ruined, having invested his profits into this last trade. He’d had to close his shops in the local market, much to his daughters’ horror. His wife’s physical decline followed fast on the heels of his loss, leaving him a widower and broken man. They eked out a hand-to-mouth existence. He held out hope that his daughters would marry well and that Christian would manage to find meaningful, profitable work. Emma was his pride, even though she broke his heart; she was too good for the local men who sought her attentions, quick-witted and ambitious, and far less promiscuous as Adrienne. He rued the day that his youngest would have to compromise her dreams for marriage. It was their lot in life. Beggars truly couldn’t choose.

Winston sighed and made his way back to his rickety wagon. His matched pair of Clydesdales nickered at him, eager to head for shelter. They smelled an impending storm in the surf and longed to bury their muzzles in sacks of oats. He climbed up onto the seat, a feat made difficult by burgeoning arthritis. He urged the horses back toward the trail, planning to head toward the valley. Perhaps there would be further word from his contacts in town.

*

The small of ozone and the crackle of static suffused the imposing castle in the hills, whipping the trees that obscured its rusted iron gates. Crows took flight on wings that resembled glistening claws against the soupy gray sky. 

Long, furry fingers ending in black talons opened the sumptuous red velvet drapes with the thick, golden cord. The building storm met with the creature’s approval, some of her finer handiwork. When she wept, the whole world wept with her. She silently counted the seconds as thunder drummed in the distance, waiting for that first stunning, blinding snap of lightning. When it arrived, the fur rose along her back, bristling with anticipation and excitement.

She longed to hurl herself into it and paint the sky with her rage, but something restrained her. She settled for throwing open the windows, letting the shutters bang back; the rush of the wind stirred her hair, whipping tendrils of it loose from her shaggy braid. Something flickered through the trees from her vantage point high on the hill, and she heard hooves clopping along the rocky trail.

_A wagon. A stranger._ Obviously, whoever it was hadn’t heard the rumors circulating in the valley. Her lips curled with disdain. _Fool._

The thunder rolled through the sky, making the ground tremble. She relished it, closing her murky eyes and letting the energy course through her body. All around her, she felt the shifting patterns of electricity and dancing ions, knowing they submitted to her whims.

Yet she felt empty.

She heard the hoofbeats slow and paused. She manipulated her winds to carry the sounds upward to her ears, where she discerned low, grumbling male curses. He sounded old and haggard, clearly not fit for the current conditions or for prolonged travel. She didn’t pity him. Not much.

She felt the pull of some odd emotion in her breast.

“Mistress? Can I fetch you some tea?”

“Not yet. Wait.” Her nostrils twitched. “We may be having company soon.”


	2. Shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stranger offers Winston Frost safe haven from the storm… at a price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya! I’m borrowing from fairy tales again, and amusingly, from Disney once more, too. No animals or furniture breaking into song, thankfully, but the themes are about the same. You might have already guessed the identity of the Beast in this, and did I mention already that this is femslash?

The broken wheel slowed his progress; the trail went from slick to muddy in a matter of minutes as he struggled to repair his wagon. Winston’s hands were frozen and smarting, and he cursed over a splinter that slipped into his finger. The horses whinnied and shied at the sound of thunder. Lightning scattered the trees with flickering radiance and made the hairs stand up on the old man’s nape. A spasm gripped his knuckles, and he cried out as the wrench slipped from his hand, landing in a puddle.

He was losing light, and the winds picked up, chilling him to the bone. There was little use in trying to go into the village now, but he would have an equally hard time trying to ford the stream that separated him from his farm. He hefted the heavy wheel back onto the axle and screwed it securely into place, hoping it would hold for the duration of the storm. By the time he was finished, he was soaked to the skin.

He clambered up onto the seat and took the reins, but before he’d even made it a mile down the trail, the horses began to shy again. The trail was a messy, oozing slurry, and the horses were having an impossible time keeping their footing. Winston feared that they would throw him if they couldn’t manage to steady themselves, and then he’d never make it home. The raindrops sluiced off the brim of his hat, and he struggled to hold onto it as a rough gust threatened to sweep it off.

Winston considered his options. His best bet was to abandon the trail and to take temporary shelter. In the worst-case scenario, he could head up. He scanned the skyline and the hill, noticing the eaves of what looked like a house protruding from the trees. Surely they would grant him shelter?

*

Emma regretted listening to Adrienne, as usual; the weather was dreadful. She nearly slipped in a slick patch of grass as she made her way through the woods, picking up the familiar trail in the fading light. The two-mile trek was normally easy for her, but large raindrops smacked her scalp once she grew far enough away that she couldn’t see the house.

The egg basket was heavy now that she’d carried it for a while, and she tried to avoid stumbling and breaking her burden, compromising their income for the week. Emma felt the puddles soaking her thin shoes down to the soles, and she sneezed wetly. Catching the ague was the last thing she needed. 

The closer to the village she grew, the more her stomach began to grumble, telling her she was missing supper. Not that it mattered; Adrienne and Cordy could easily make a meal out of the last of the leftover stew and would save her nothing. _Lazy wretches._

The grass beneath her feet changed to cobblestones, and she noticed the townsfolk beginning to light lanterns and candles in their windows. Tempting smells of stew and pies drifted to her nose, frustrating Emma. She hurried past the tavern that Christian frequented, not wanting him to catch her out in this weather, and knowing he wouldn’t want her to catch him in present company, either. Where Adrienne preferred the Wild Duck Inn for her meetings with Donald Pierce, Christian favored the rough-and-tumble crowd at the Black Trident, boasting the finest ale and promise of silence for its patrons’ exploits. Emma fisted her hood more tightly beneath her chin, knowing she looked a sight, and she made haste for the market.

Many of the booths were locked up or deserted, but a stubborn few remained at their stands, calling out bargains for out-of-season fruit and questionably fresh fish. Emma stopped at old Celeste’s stand just as the toothless crone waved her over, grinning at her state.

“Look like a wet hen, y’do,” she informed her. Celeste was fond of Winston Frost, and his youngest child was the only sweet apple in the whole rotten barrel.

“That’s fine talk, when I’ve come all this way with fresh eggs,” Emma hmmphed. “Look. You won’t find any better than these.” Celeste flipped up the lid of the basket and peered inside, humming to herself as she picked up a few of them.

“They’ll do. I’ll give you a pound for the lot.”

“A mere pound? That’s robbery!” Emma was crestfallen, and she rose to the occasion, readying herself to barter.

“That’s it, dearie. That’s all I can spare. Business has been rough.”

“Which business might that be?” Emma knew Celeste made her true profit from selling back-alley ale brewed in her own washtub without a license. The crone gave her a telling scowl and held up her finger to her lips.

“Hush! That’ll be enough out of you, young Emma!” Celeste eyed the eggs with disdain. “Some of ‘em are cracked.”

“That’s rubbish. They’re all fine, laid fresh this morning. Two pounds.”

“Those hens of yours don’t lay eggs of gold! One!”

“You’d see us all freeze to death? I need to buy oil!”

“Your brother has no such worries,” Celeste sniffed. “Saw him stagger off this morning, out that door.” She pointed to the Black Trident’s entrance, and Emma fumed.

“Please, Celeste.”

“Don’t go giving me that look, miss. You won’t sway me with those innocent blue eyes this time. I can’t give you more than a pound for ‘em. It’s been a lean week.”

“You’d give my father a better price.”

“Your father and I used to trade all the time, when he had anything to offer, sweet.”

“He will again,” Emma argued, but Celeste huffed a laugh.

“Sure, dearie. Sure, he will. Speaking of which, does he know you’re out in this sinful gale?”

“He hasn’t returned home yet,” Emma explained. “He’s gone beachcombing.”

“Oho! While the cat’s away, the mice will play! Get on home with you, Emma Frost! You’ve no business out here, alone and this close to nightfall!” Celeste dug into her box and handed Emma a crumpled note of money, along with a few pence. “That’s the best I can do.” Emma surrendered the basket, and Celeste emptied the eggs into one of her own quickly. “Your brother should have made the trip here.”

“I can handle it myself,” Emma informed her. “Someone has to.”

“That someone shouldn’t be a slip of a girl who should be home by a hearth, mending socks for a big, strong husband.”

“No, thank you,” Emma sang as she took her leave, adjusting her hood and closing her basket.

“Stubborn little thing,” Celeste muttered under her breath, shaking her shaggy gray head. But she admired the girl’s tall, proud posture and quick, steady gait. Winston had his hands full with _that_ one.

Emma continued to fume as she made her way to the vendor who sold kerosene and other household wares. She dickered with him over it until he offered her a fair price. Emma also looked longingly at the spices, but she couldn’t justify the cost when they needed money for the week until her father returned. Maybe his ship would come in, if she prayed for a turn in his fortune long enough. Or maybe not, and she would be a drudge a while longer. 

Emma still had her dreams. And they were free.

*

Sebastian paused at the door of his carriage as his footman, Jase, held it open for him impatiently. “It’s rough weather out, milord.”

“The young miss would agree with you. Let’s offer her a ride,” he told him, earning a low sigh as he backed away from the door, turned on his heel, and hurried after the girl in the sopping wet cloak. His strides were long and confident, and he had a haughty bearing.

“EMMA!” His voice boomed across the street, and Emma made a sound of disgust.

“Damn it,” she muttered. She continued to hurry back the way she came, but Sebastian Shaw’s boots were heavy on the cobblestones and she recoiled when he caught up to her. His hand was large and warm at her back as he accosted her. Her expression was demure when she greeted him, but her blue eyes were flinty.

“Someone hasn’t the good sense to come in out of the rain,” he told her, grinning.

“You’re out in the rain,” she challenged. 

“Let me help you with that.” He snatched her basket from her grip before she could stop him and headed back in the direction of the Black Trident.

“You’re not helping! Give that back! You’re going the wrong way!” Her voice was shrewish, she knew, but she didn’t feel like wasting time on pleasantries for the likes of Sebastian Shaw.

“Then tell me where we need to go. Jase, help her inside.” He beckoned to his footman, and Emma smothered a grimace. Jason Wyngarde was a weasly looking man with lank brown hair and a sparse mustache that made him look like he had a dirty upper lip. He leered at Emma, enjoying the way her damp skirts clung to her body, exposing shapely ankles and calves. Emma’s cheeks and lips were rosy and flushed from the cold. He grinned at her with crooked teeth.

“In with you, now,” he bade her, urging her to climb into the carriage. Sebastian’s transport was well-appointed and lush, with rich velvet upholstery and curtains inside. It would be a great deal warmer than traveling home on foot, but Sebastian was a rake. Emma had no patience for womanizers and refused to be another notch in his bedpost.

Emma Frost made him salivate. Sebastian was captivated by her surface beauty, but also by the haughtiness and disdain in her eyes, something she employed to drive off weaker men. She was tall and slender, and he knew her curves were ripe beneath her worn brown cloak. Gleaming blonde hair cascaded down her back in a thick plait that had seen better days; stray tendrils were pasted to her brown from the rain, emphasizing patrician features and high, sculpted cheekbones. He considered her a challenge, and a prize worthy of only him. 

Sebastian Shaw was wealthy by birth, and he made himself even wealthier through trade and his investments. He was an avid hunter and marksman, and his estate was decorated throughout with the hides and heads of his kills, rendering it more macabre than elegant. He was a large man, easily topping six feet and broad through his chest and shoulders, and his hair rippled like black marble down to his shoulders, which he clubbed back in a simple ponytail. He was classically handsome, with perfect, straight white teeth, but there was cruelty in his slate gray eyes. He wore a black vest and coat with a crisp white shirt, cutting the severity of it with a red silk cravat. Despite the rain, Sebastian tipped his hat to Emma, completing his image as the perfect gentleman.

“I don’t want to detain you. Good day, Mr. Shaw.”

“You only detain me with your refusal.” Emma turned her back on him, giving him the cut direct, but he hurried ahead of her and placed himself in her way.

“I wouldn’t want to keep you, sir.”

“I’ve no obligations to take me away from you.” 

_Find some._ “I fear I have several of my own.”

“Then let me speed the way for you to return to them. My carriage is warm and dry.” Emma could tell the weather was vexing him, if the way he shrugged further into his coat was any clue. But he maintained his bright smile and dissembling. Emma sighed.

“I’m afraid I must refuse, Mr. Shaw. I thank you for your most thoughtful offer.” She wasn’t in the mood to be polite, and her feet were protesting their cold, cramped condition inside her snug, wet shoes.

“You won’t tarry a moment and share a mug of hot cider with me?”

“I can’t afford to tarry, Mr. Shaw. Good day.” She held out her hand imperiously for her basket, which he surrendered in good grace, but he held onto the handle a moment too long, making her jerk it impatiently from him. She flounced off, annoyed.

“Sassy miss, that one,” Jase whistled as Sebastian climbed into the carriage.

“I like her fire,” he mused. “And I love it when they fight back.”

Emma hated the rain, but she didn’t regret for one second that she slogged through the mud instead of riding, virtue compromised, in the confines of Shaw’s gaudy carriage.

*

Winston felt some dismay that his promise to his daughters almost a fortnight ago wouldn’t be kept, after all. Adrienne and Cordelia begged him to bring them back presents from his travels.

“A comb, Father!”

“I need some perfume!”

“Emma?” He beckoned to his youngest, who was fighting with one of his socks, trying to darn it for him. She looked up at him from biting off the end of the black strand of thread.

“Yes, Father?”

“Do you need me to bring you back anything?”

“I can’t think of anything offhand,” she said blandly. Adrienne and Cordelia were making faces at her behind Winston’s back, mimicking her. When he turned away, she stuck out her tongue and went back to her sewing.

“Surely you wouldn’t mind some small trifle? Ribbons for your hair?”

“Father, please,” Emma snickered, waving him away. He reached over and chucked her under her chin. She hadn’t worn ribbons in her hair since she was five.

“Perhaps some nice fabric? Or a little mirror for your vanity?”

“No, thank you, Father.” It was so tempting to ask for something she couldn’t get for herself, but she couldn’t justify the cost. Emma had no need for trifles.

He asked her again after supper, wandering over to her seat by the hearth, where she had her nose buried in a book. Adrienne was upstairs, letting Cordelia brush her hair before they went to bed. “Emma? Darling, tell me what I may bring back for you. It’s only fitting, if your sisters have asked for presents. I won’t slight you.”

“You’ve never slighted me, Father.” She reached for his hand and rubbed her cheeks across his old, weathered knuckles. He nodded and smiled.

“Flowers, then?”

“If you like,” Emma conceded. “The daffodils are almost in bloom. Or thunbergias are nice.”

“Don’t insult me, Emma. I wouldn’t dream of bringing home such provincial blooms. You’ll have a rose. A perfect, white rose.” He leaned down and kissed the top of her head and ruffled her hair. Emma grinned back and shooed him away.

Winston recalled that night by the hearth wistfully as he guided his horses through the brush, back up the winding trail instead of down. The imposing house grew closer, looming much larger than he’d previously guessed. Lightning flashed, illuminating the dark, rusty gates, and he saw that the estate boasted towers on either side, guarded by stone gargoyles slouching over the turrets. Their stony faces wore expressions of anguish, as if to warn him away, but Winston chuckled at his own unease. Surely the owner of such a spacious home could spare him a place under their roof?

To his surprise, the gates gave way when he gave the handle a halfhearted push, opening with a loud squeal of their hinges. He guided his wagon down the path, noticing a sturdy-looking stable on the castle’s west side. Winston climbed down from his perch and searched the barn, and he found a half a dozen beautiful, plump white horses. They grunted and nickered at him as he entered and inspected each stall. He found two empty ones, and he unhitched his old mares from the wagon and led them inside. There was a large sack of oats that had recently been opened; he poured some into two nearby feed bags and tended to his girls, locking them into the stalls for the night. The barn was large and spacious, with a large hayloft, too, when he climbed the ladder to explore it. He contemplated asking the owner if he could simply sleep in the barn for the night, but his joints protested that idea. While he didn’t wish to impose, Winston’s body ached for a warm bed and a roaring fire.

He lit a lantern with a dwindling supply of kerosene and navigated his way in the dark to the castle, amazed with the craftsmanship that went into such a structure. But it was sorely neglected, its walls overgrown with ivy and moss that snaked across the windowpanes and shutters, strangling the towers and columns. He hissed in a breath of surprise when he approached the front door and saw the brass knocker, almost as large as his head. It was carved in the shape of a demon’s head, mean-looking ram’s horns jutting from its head. Hungry fangs grinned out at Winston, and he shivered. Perhaps it wasn’t the way he would have shown his hospitality to outsiders if he were to outfit such a home, he considered. Then again, maybe that was the point.

He might not be welcome there.

Before he could stop himself, he knocked, hearing the sound echo inside. He waited a few seconds for the sound of footsteps or voices, but none greeted him. He knocked again.

The door hinges groaned and the large, heavy panel gave way from the frame, yawning open with the slightest nudge of his hand. Winston found himself wandering inside, drawn partly by the air that was much warmer than it was outside. The ceilings towered overhead, and he stood in a foyer that was large enough to hold his entire house.

He closed the door gently behind him and called out.

“Hullo? Good evening? Anyone here?”

*

The creature started at the sound of the brass knocker outside, and she felt outrage spark at the stranger’s audacity when she heard the deep male voice in her front hall. She was merely curious when the wagon disappeared beyond her line of vision, but this interloper clearly had plans to visit.

He wouldn’t like what he found; that much, she knew.

Curiosity outweighed her irritation. He sounded older, and it was cold and dark outside. What would a man in his condition be doing away from home, traveling in such a shabby open wagon?

“Mistress?”

“What now?” she replied in a surly rasp.

“Shall we serve tea?”

“Tea. A man intrudes in my house, uninvited, and you ask me if we’re going to give him tea.” The very idea baffled her.

“It’s cold, Mistress. A spot of hot tea would be no trouble, certainly.”

She growled under her breath. She offered the rats in her wine cellar that much hospitality, practically. She could spare a hot dish, provided that the stranger didn’t pry behind closed doors.

“Set out a proper tea,” she muttered. “And a place by the hearth for him to sleep, if need be. But make it plain that he’s to leave in the morning, emptyhanded.”

“Aye, Mistress.” She sighed at the sound of paws scrabbling across the fine marble floor as her maid hurried to do her bidding.

In the meantime, she decided to investigate her visitor’s progress into her home. She opened the shutters and without a second thought, leapt from the ledge. The wind whistled through her hair, making her gown and cloak whip out around her body. She savored the rush of her descent, three stories up, until her wings snapped out neatly, unfurling to pocket the air current. She soared upon it instinctively, feeling the air course through her feathers. This aspect of her curse, she didn’t mind. The sky was her friend.

It was so tempting to end it by leaping into oblivion, finding an end to her torment once she allowed herself to be crushed against the stones below, but no matter how often she mulled it, or even tried, she failed miserably. It was an animal’s survival instincts that made her open her wings every time, no matter how high a peak she hurled herself from. She lit upon the ground and strode to the barn, relieved that its doors were closed. But she spied the rickety wagon parked out back, and she snorted in annoyance.

She opened the doors and peered inside, then allowed herself inside to inspect her prize possessions. The herd of white horses appeared unmolested, but she heard two sets of low whickers and what sounded like munching off in the corner. She wandered to the back and found two strange brown mares in the rearmost stalls, supping on her oats with relish. She huffed, slightly put out. Surely, he could have asked first?

But the horses acknowledged her with low whinnies, flicking their tails and bristling their manes. She was fearsome to man, but kin to beast and fowl. She sighed, holding out her palm, and the larger mare approached, leaning its neck into her caress. She stroked its ears and watched them, resigned.

“All right, then. You’ll bed down with us, tonight.” She checked the horses’ feed bags and noticed they were almost empty. She gave them another ration of oats and filled a pail with water, leaving them to finish their supper in peace. She felt no resentment for them; they were in her stable at the whim of the man who hitched them to his wagon. Horses were noble creatures.

There was still the matter of their master. She launched herself aloft, lighting inside her chamber window. Her chimney sweep chittered at her as he stoked the fire in her hearth with two narrow logs, knocking down the remains of the last with the long poker.

“Will you be retiring, Mistress?”

“Not yet.”

“Aye, then. Will we be setting the table for two?”

“No. Don’t be ridiculous.” His whiskers twitched, and he sighed, resigned.

“You won’t at least greet him?”

“And tell him what?” He opened his mouth to reply, but then thought better of it, shrugging.

“As you wish, Mistress.”

“See to his needs,” she growled after him. “But make sure he doesn’t take anything.” She remembered one last detail as he began to scurry away. “Manuel?”

“Yes, Mistress?”

“Make sure you keep him out of the garden.”

*

Emma fretted when she reached the house. Cordelia looked up at her in disgust as she shucked her shoes by the front door.

“Don’t drip all over the floor!”

“Easier said than done,” she snapped. “It’s raining outside, if it hasn’t escaped your attention.”

“I hope Adrienne has Donald bring her home in the carriage,” her older sister murmured as she took a bite of a sweet biscuit. “When are you going to make supper?”

“In a minute,” Emma grumbled. She wanted to pitch a tantrum. Her sister had done nothing but laze around the house all day by the fire, and now Emma had to cook? “Adrienne isn’t back yet?” She wasn’t sorry.

“No. Neither is Christian.” That worried Emma more. “He should have been back by now.”

“I didn’t see him when I went into town,” Emma argued as she found a scruffy hand towel and began to dry her hair.

“You know Christian. If he doesn’t want to be found, then he won’t be.” Cordelia’s eyes gleamed wickedly. Emma felt uneasy at her brother’s absence. The house felt unprotected and vulnerable without her father or Christian to settle her fears. Emma set about chopping the vegetables and dressing the meat, laying it in a roasting pan with some potatoes. Emma busied herself while it baked by folding her father’s clean shirts and putting them away in the chest by the foot of the bed, adding a sprig of fresh lavender.

Adrienne hurried into the house a half an hour later, but Emma was dismayed that it wasn’t Christian. She made a sound of disappointment, and Adrienne’s smile faltered as she caught it.

“Don’t look so happy to see me.”

“I was hoping you were Christian. Supper’s on,” she informed her, nodding to it before she went back to the window to count the stars. She knew all of the planets and constellations, occasionally peering up at them with her father’s small scope. It wasn’t the same without him there beside her, quizzing her endlessly.

“You can put it away. I’ve already eaten. Donald showed me a fine afternoon. We had roast duck,” she bragged.

“How lovely,” Emma lied. Cordelia looked jealous.

“Did he ask for anything in return?”

“Do shut up,” Adrienne warned, but she grinned wickedly. “Come upstairs with me, Cordy!” Emma knew they meant to exclude her from the gossip, but it was moot. She heard tales from the local girls in the village of her sister’s exploits, only slightly less scandalous than Christian’s. But it was worse, because Adrienne was a woman, and she was losing her prospects for a respectable marriage with her dalliances. A generous dowry would secure her position in the bridal market, but Winston’s luck hadn’t turned yet.

Emma lingered by the fire, finally dry and dressed in a flannel nightgown and wrapper, wool stockings, and covered in a thick blanket. She read by candlelight as she awaited her brother’s return.

The crash of the door banging open startled her awake, followed by her brother’s long, low moans of pain.

*

Winston wandered down the hall toward the sound of footsteps and low, murmuring voices, unsure of where he was going. The low thud of the front door startled him, but when he looked back, there was no servant to be found. A shiver ran up his spine as he made his way through the cavernous home. As he ventured back, he noticed myriad portraits and artwork hanging along the walls in neat rows.

He followed the glow of warmth that gradually met him in the library. He sucked in a breath of surprise at the towering bookcases lined with novels, atlases, almanacs, tomes, encyclopedias and grimoires. _Emma would call this room her own corner of paradise._ To his delight, a fire was already crackling in the hearth, and Winston lumbered forward to warm his hands, feeling them smart and tingle as his circulation returned.

He carefully unbuttoned his coat with stiff fingers and set his hat on the floor.

“I’ll be taking that,” a voice squawked at him. Winston nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Who’s there?” he cried, whipping around at the sound of a rush of wings.

“ _AWK!_ Don’t mind me! Just tidying up!” A huge black myna bird sailed neatly into the room from the corridor and hovered before him. “Do you set your things on the floor at home?”

“Er, no. I beg your pardon.”

“You’ll have it, if you hang your coat on that peg over there. Oh, never mind, Santo will do it. Come along, now, Santo, spit-spot!” The myna bird plucked his hat up in her beak and set it atop a coat rack that Winston hadn’t noticed when he entered the library.

“Coming,” a voice growled behind him, sending shivers down Winston’s spine. His fears were justified; an enormous brown grizzly bear ambled up to him on its hindlegs. Its massive limbs reached for him, and he was terrified that the creature might take a swipe at him, but the bear… smiled at him. “Take your coat?”

“W-wh-what?”

“Take your coat? It’s dripping all over,” the bear informed him.

“Y-y-yes, th-thank you,” Winston stammered, offering the bear a shaky smile. His hands trembled as he shucked his coat, and he still couldn’t believe it when Santo – Santo! – hung it neatly from the rack below his hat.

“Grab some leather,” a feminine voice mewed at him. Winston watched a gorgeous orange tabby leap up onto a comfortable-looking chair near the hearth, perfect for reading a good book. She purred and kneaded her paws against the pillow sitting against the chair’s arm before she quickly leapt back down. Winston could have sworn she’d fluffed it for him. He eased himself down into the chair, and he groaned in relief, glad not to be seated behind his horses for a while.

“Thank you,” he told her, still unable to believe he was talking to a cat who’d spoken first.

“The name’s Jenny,” she purred cheekily as she nudged his leg, flicking her tail back and forth. The gesture was almost saucy. Winston chuckled and scratched her behind her ears.

“There’s hot tea here for you, sir,” a voice informed him from the doorway. Two squirrels – squirrels! – scurried forward with a rolling service cart that carried a gleaming silver pot and a fine porcelain cup. They were plump, sleek animals with plush gray coats and eyes that resembled onyx chips.

Winston didn’t know if a kindly angel was watching over him, or if he was going mad.

For the moment, all he cared was that he was warm and sheltered. The tea was a fragrant, dark brew, and his host kindly provided cream, sugar, and a plate of biscuits. He wondered how one made polite conversation with animals, or even _if_ one should do such a thing, but they took the quandary out of his hands; when he looked up from his empty cup, the creatures were gone.

He settled back in the chair, removed his wet shoes and propped his feet on the ottoman, sighing in contentment as he warmed his toes.

Winston must have dozed; he awoke to find himself covered with a warm blanket. The fire had been stoked up again and the chill had finally left his bones. Outside, however, the storm still raged. He shuddered at the thought of having to go out in it again. Winston didn’t want to outstay his welcome, but he hoped his host wouldn’t ask him to leave until the worst of the weather lifted.

He donned his shoes once more, thankful that they were much drier, and he crept out of the library, hoping to find a window to watch the storm from, since the library didn’t provide him one. He wondered where the castle’s odd “servants” had gotten off to, and if they could give him directions, but a chime of the clock told him it was midnight. Winston heard thunder rolling across the sky overhead, and second later, lightning flashed, illuminating the hallway. He followed the flickering blue glow and found an open door. When he reached it, he gasped at the sight of an open solarium the likes of which he’d never seen.

It was full of lush, exotic plants, and they were so verdant that the room steamed slightly from the plants’ natural moisture. Winston breathed the fragrance into his lungs and wandered around the room, inspecting the hanging pots and creeping vines. The furniture in the room was spare and elegant, and the windows began at high as his waist and reached almost up to the ceiling. It was a perfect room to count the stars; Emma would approve.

But his thrall was broken by another flash of lightning, this one pouring liquid white light over the landscape outside. “Good heavens,” he murmured as the statues outside were illuminated and picked out against the dark backdrop of the sky. Within a row of white gates stood one of the loveliest gardens Winston had ever seen.

Wordlessly he turned the doorknob and let himself out. It was still raining steadily, but the winds had died down a bit. He meandered down the paved path, staring at the graceful stone figures with awe. They were carved out of marble and alabaster, angels mingling with nymphs and centaurs, and the centerpiece of the garden was a ring of rosebushes of every color. Salmon pinks, scarlets, buttercup yellow, peach, cream, tourmaline, all of them made his eyes pop out of his head, but it took a while to find the ones he was looking for.

White.

Brilliant, blazing white roses, unspoiled and pure of human touch, beckoned to him from the edge of the garden, and Winston laughed in triumph. He would have Emma’s gift, at least, before the night was through.

*

The creature awoke with a start at the sound of footsteps in the corridor downstairs; they sounded too heavy to be any of her servants. Cursing silently, she rose from her bed, stretching limbs and rustling wings in annoyance. She wouldn’t tolerate unsupervised tours of her home, and she was galled at this stranger’s nerve. Hadn’t she allowed him a roof over his head?

She strode downstairs and swept through the hall toward the library. Santo said that was where they’d put him, but to her alarm, he was missing.

“Goddess help you if I find you where you don’t belong,” she growled. Her hackles rose and wings bristled, almost knocking one of her portraits off the wall. She caught his scent, breathing it in deeply. Yes. Old. Male. He’d been to the beach recently; she could smell the sand and surf on his flesh. Anger rose in her chest, simmering in her veins, when she realized he’d headed toward the solarium. Low growls grew in her throat, and her heartbeat sped up as she caught sight of the damp shoe prints tracked across her floor. 

_He’s in my garden! FOOL! Upstart!_

She charged outside on swift feet and took wing, sweeping down the path, where she found him reaching for one of the delicate stems of her flawless white roses. 

“ **THIEF!** ”

Winston felt the rush of wind and the beating of wings, but it wasn’t the civil scolding of a myna bird that greeted him this time. He was knocked to his feet and the breath was crushed from his lungs by a creature found only in his foulest, most terrifying nightmares. Harsh, hot breath steamed his ear and neck; the being was panting with rage and growling in such guttural, hostile tones that he nearly urinated on himself.

He was roughly flipped onto his back, and he sorely wished he hadn’t been. Cold, murky, slate blue eyes bore into his, gradually shifting and swirling into glowing white. They were hideous, with reptilian slitted pupils. The beast stood taller than he, or he would have guessed as much, if he’d been allowed to remain upright. The beast was crouched over him, beating broad, menacing white wings with black-tipped feathers. Unlike the other occupants of the castle, this creature wore a dark indigo cloak, obscuring the rest of its body, but at first glance, he could swear it was vaguely… female.

Its face bore high cheekbones and a nose and mouth that could only be called a muzzle, which was currently snarling at him. It was almost leonine, and the being’s hair was silvery white. Fur covered its skin, golden brown, again, like a lion’s, but it stood at odds with the feathered wings. Most unsettling were the ram’s horns that curled out from its brow, coiling around just shy of its pointed, tufted ears.

Fetid breath steamed Winston’s face, and his heart pounded in his chest. Gleaming white fangs threatened to tear out his throat as the beast spoke.

“You _dare_ … to come into my home, enjoy my hospitality, and then steal roses from my garden, little man?”

“N-no! Not steal! I swear that I wasn’t stealing! Taking… no! Borrowing! I just wanted to… borrow…” Winston realized too late how foolish that sounded, and the creature huffed a harsh laugh.

“Do you mean to put it back?” She glared accusingly at his hand, where he held the treasure he’d plucked in a quivering grip.

“Good heavens.”

“No one there can help you now.”


	3. Bargain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A father’s cruel choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *listens to crickets chirping in the background* Hello? Helloooooo?
> 
> Hope this fic is entertaining. For whatever the reason, it appeals to my muse to throw this one out there. I love fractured fairy tales and I love the X-Men. If anyone noticed the little Easter egg that I dropped last chapter, the Beast’s “servants” are populated by the younger characters in the spinoff titles.

Emma rushed upstairs with the pot of boiling water and an armload of towels and clean rags, heart pounding. She hissed at the stray droplets of steaming water that splashed onto her nightgown, but she didn’t have time to indulge the painful sensation. Her brother’s suffering dwarfed any of her own discomforts.

He’d been beaten.

Emma had reached the door first when he practically fell through it, coughing and bleeding from the mouth. His light blue eyes, so much like Emma’s, appeared glassy and vacant. She was heedless of how dirty he was, grime mingling with bloody scratches across his lean cheeks, and she didn’t care if her own clothing became soiled when she rushed forward to support him. Cordelia came into the foyer at the sound of the scuffle at the door, took one look at her brother and screamed.

“CHRISTIAN! Dear God! What happened?”

“Help me,” Emma hissed, jerking her head around to glare at her older sister over her shoulder as she wrapped her brother’s arm around her neck to support him. “Get him upstairs.”

“He’s bleeding everywhere,” Cordelia fretted, wringing her hands as she followed them.

“Get blankets! And get him something to drink!” Emma snapped.

“Don’t you tell me what to do!” Cordelia’s cheeks were florid at Emma’s gall.

“ _Do it. Now._ ” Christian flinched at how their pause in progress on the stairs made his tortured abdomen spasm, and he felt unease at the dangerous tone of his youngest sister’s voice. She didn’t sound like herself. But he appreciated her haste and aggression as she took control of his care and wrestled him into his room. The next few minutes were a painful, hazy blur of activity. His skin was pale and bruised everywhere. He had a black eye and contusions across his ribs and back when she gently removed his ruined shirt.

“Don’t… don’t look at me,” he moaned. “Emma, please. Please don’t.”

“I have to, Chris. I want to help you.” She made him sit on top of the towels she brought so he wouldn’t ruin the bedclothes. “Some of these will need stitches.”

“All right.” His voice sounded dull and too compliant. He wouldn’t look up at her.

“It’s going to be all right,” she soothed.

“No. It won’t.” She looked up at the sound of despair in his voice.

“Christian…” He ducked from beneath her touch when she reached to stroke his cheek. Tears streaked through the grime on his skin. Emma went about the business of cleansing his wounds, mindful of his low hisses of pain.

Emma drew him a bath next, bringing up pans and pails of hot water for him. Christian sat stony-eyed and unmoving as she gradually filled the tub. Cordelia, helpful for a change, brought him a small glass of brandy. He tossed it back and handed her the empty vessel, but it didn’t take the edge from his pain. His spirit was broken. Emma found out why when he stood from the bed, and she saw the strange stains of blood that pooled in the towels she laid over his bed.

“I thought I cleaned all of your cuts –“ Christian covered her mouth with his fingertips.

“Hush, Emma. Please. We won’t speak of it. I can’t share this with you. Not now.” Emma felt her eyes burn as her concern and confusion seized her, making her throat close up.

“Don’t hide this from me, Christian!”

“I have to.”

“You’re bleeding.” As the words left her mouth, Emma saw her brother wince. He turned his back on her in an attempt to be strong, but he shivered.

 _I’m so ashamed. Please, don’t make me tell you. You’d hate me, little sister._ Emma gasped as she heard his thoughts as clearly as though they’d sprung from his lips. In a flash, images tumbled into her head, ripped from her brother’s recent memories, and she staggered back beneath their weight and intensity.

She heard raucous male laughter and saw grinning, ruddy faces looming over her… no. Over _Christian._ She saw glimpses of what happened through his eyes, felt what he felt in brief snatches. She was being shoved and buffeted through the door of a public place. She guessed it was a tavern. She smelled acrid pipe smoke and stale, warm ale.

She was being shoved. Dragged outside. It was cold and rain poured into the streets in sheets, whipped by the wind. She stumbled, pushed and tugged by multiple pairs of hands into a stinking alley.

 _You won’t cheat me at cards without paying me back, Frost. You’re not as pretty as your sister, but I’ll wager you’re just as cheap!_ Emma felt her voice changing from alcohol-raspy to loud and desperate before a rough hand was clapped over her mouth. Cold air and rain rushed over her body as her coat – Christian’s coat - was yanked open and he was shoved face-first against the slick wall of the pub. Fingers crawled over him, prying open the fastenings of his clothing, popping loose buttons and undoing ties. Emma recoiled at the feel of the invasive hands, chafing at how violated she felt.

Christian’s waistband was jerked down, hammocking his thighs, and through him, Emma felt exposed and vulnerable, completely helpless as someone seized her flailing, beating hands and wrenched them over her head. She couldn’t catch herself as her face was shoved against the unyielding wall.

She felt impotent, helpless rage before she was brutally invaded, breached by hard, throbbing flesh that bruised and tore her unprotected opening.

Emma uttered a small cry of anguish as she fled from her brother’s memories, closing the doors of his mind. Christian hissed in surprise as he felt her retreat, and he spun on her, eyes suddenly sparking with the anger of betrayal. His pupils dilated and his chest heaved deeply, unevenly. A lone tear raced down his cheek.

“Emma! What did you do!” 

“Christian… I didn’t mean…”

“ _What did you DO!_ ” Christian shook his head, unwilling to believe that his secret had been ripped from him so cruelly. He trembled, and to Emma, he looked like a wounded little boy. His normally tall, proud bearing crumpled, and he plowed his fingers through his dark waves just shy of pulling it out by the roots.

“Nothing… Christian, I did nothing!”

“That wasn’t for you to see,” he railed.

“What would you have me do? They hurt you.” Emma’s eyes hardened. “They won’t hurt you again.”

“No! Stay out of this, Emma! Don’t be a fool!” he spat.

“Why? Because I refuse to let them get away with this?”

“They’ll get to you,” Christian promised grimly. He gripped her upper arms until they smarted, and she stared up at him, eyes brimming with angry tears.

“Even if it had been Adrienne, I would want to make them pay. I love you, big brother.”

“Promise me you won’t do anything. Promise me you won’t try anything on my account, Emma.”

“I can’t promise you that,” she admitted. Christian shook her, eyes wide and desperate, and she hissed at his tightening grip around her flesh.

“God help you, Emma. You will obey me in this.”

 _I’ve never been obedient unless it suited me._ Emma allowed her stiff posture to relax, and Christian took that for compliance. He let go of her, and she reached for him, embracing him protectively. His heartbeat drummed beneath her cheek as she tried to rub the chill from his skin.

It wouldn’t be the last time Emma found herself making hard decisions for her family’s benefit.

*

Winston reeled, unable to believe how quickly his fortune had changed. His heart pounded in his ears, competing with the scrabble of his booted feet against the marble floors as the beast dragged him down the corridor.

“You would intrude on me, and take liberties far more dire than your little mind can comprehend. Do you think me a fool not to know every step that you took through my home? Or not to notice when something was amiss?”

“Please… where are we going?”

“You didn’t appreciate my earlier accommodations, clearly. Let’s rest those weary feet of yours somewhere that won’t make them want to wander.”

“I’ll get myself gone! Let me go, and I’ll never darken your doorstep again! I didn’t mean to offend you or take liberties! Please, release me!”

“Foolish man,” the beast growled. Its voice was guttural, deep and raspy, as though it didn’t speak very often. Winston was shocked that such a creature possessed the power of speech, let alone such a vocabulary to chastise him so soundly. She – he’d begun thinking of the creature as female – was remarkably strong, hauling him by his arm and gripping the scruff of his neck. “Few who come here ever leave in the same condition they arrived. I’ve driven off poachers and thieves from my home before.”

“I’m no thief!”

“We’ll add lying to your list of sins, along with trespassing and disturbing my solitude.”

The creature wouldn’t admit that she rather liked his horses; they were pleasant, unassuming animals. And truthfully, it had been months since she’d heard a true human’s voice with the walls of her castle. But she couldn’t afford to be taken advantage of. 

Not again.

“I meant no harm,” Winston sobbed as they reached the corner of the corridor and headed for a heavy door with a tarnished brass knob.

“You’ve harmed what I love most,” the creature corrected him. “They’re sacred to me.”

“I only wanted to bring one home! I only asked for a gift!”

“ _You didn’t ask._ ”

They descended a dusty, winding staircase, and Winston felt the hair on his nape rise as his captor raised her hand and generated a blinding ball of bluish-white light that sparked and danced, as though she wielded lightning from the sky itself. “What devilry is that?” Winston accused.

“Impudent. You dare to demand such a thing, when you’re the one under suspicion. You’ve a small, closed mind, sir.” The thing’s eyes were previously a strange, murky gray, but as she gazed down into his face, they flared white and glowed in the darkness. Overhead, he heard the rumble of thunder, even though the sky had finally cleared. As they reached the bottom of the staircase, Winston realized how arcane and dreadful a turn his fortune had taken after all; the room she unceremoniously shoved him into could only be described as a cell. He heard the faint clicks of cockroaches skittering through cracks in the corners, and there were no windows, only a meager vent in the ceiling. He stumbled over his own feet and landed hard against a dusty, hard bench.

“It’s not my study, but it’s homey, don’t you think?” the creature jeered.

“Who… who are you?” Winston demanded.

“Aren’t you bold,” she murmured with a shake of her horned head. “You may call me Windrider, if you like. I’m legend in these parts.”

“I-I’ve n-never heard of you.” She deflated slightly, and she lost some of her haughty stiffness.

“That’s a shame. You could have heeded the warnings of those who came before you.” He tried to rush past her toward the door, but she growled at him menacingly and raised her clawed hand to slap him soundly. He backed off and cowered in the corner like a trapped rat.

She examined him in the low glow of her lightning sphere and huffed. He wasn’t excessively plump, owning only the slight paunch that accompanied middle age. He was shorter than she was by perhaps three inches, and the hair on his head was sparse. Its color nearly matched her long, shaggy mane, telling her he had to be a man in his sixties. His skin was fair but florid, with a slight sunburn across his nose and cheeks, and his eyes were a watery, faded blue with laugh lines fanning out from the corners. He wore rough clothing of poor quality, but despite his muddy boots, his pants, shirts and careworn jacket were clean. His faded features were handsome at one point, if she wanted to be kind in her estimation, but, she reminded herself, he’d stolen her roses.

There was no being kind about it.

“A precious few have crossed this threshold to ply their trade their trade here or make me offers. You see me, and you tremble.”

“You’re not human.”

“It’s overrated,” she muttered, shrugging. “Why did you come here?”

“Shelter,” he explained, playing to her sense of mercy. “I had to fix a wheel on my wagon. It was storming fiercely outside, and-“

“I know it was raining outside. That was _my_ doing.”

“That’s impossible,” Winston murmured. The creature who called itself “Windrider” gestured to herself and ran one clawed fingertip over the curve of one of her magnificent horns.

“Anything’s possible.” The creature turned her back on him long enough to lock the door to the cell. Winston felt a frisson of fear run through his belly, and he regretted the two cups of tea he’d drunk so thirstily. “I gave up trying to fathom the whims of strangers or those who wanted things from me. You aren’t the first person who ventured through my gates looking for shelter.” Her voice held a bitter note.

“I have a family,” Winston beseeched her. “They need me!”

“Does that make you better than me?”

“Yes! I mean, no! No!” The creature’s eyes narrowed at him and she hissed her displeasure. Long, slightly spiky whiskers twitched as she drew back her lips from her fanged teeth. “Please… you have… everything. I won’t take anything with me. I won’t touch anything, I’ll leave completely emptyhanded.”

“I won’t ask your horses to cough up my oats, I suppose,” Windrider sniffed. “But you’ve wounded my roses.” She held up the fragile bloom, and before Winston’s horrified eyes, a lone petal fell off and drifted to the floor. “You’ve _soiled_ them. It’s only fair that you give up something precious of yours in return.”

“What? But… I would, er, madam…”

“Windrider,” it corrected him.

“… but I have nothing. I’ve lost everything. My shop. My ships. Even my darling wife.” His eyes grew limpid with tears, and for a moment, the beast was moved. She examined him further and reached for him, hauling him to her by his lapels. He shivered but allowed her inspection, feeling her warm breath misting over his cheeks once more.

“You’re soft. Not meant for the hard life you live.” Winston didn’t take offense. “You lost your wife. You have a family.”

“Yes,” he replied.

“A daughter,” she pried.

“Three of them. All of them young and lovely, but they need me to keep a roof over their heads, my son is useless… er, I mean…” His voice trailed off, and the beast smirked; it was a strange, unnerving expression rendered by those strange features.

“I was once accused of behaving in such a manner. I’ve little use for young men, myself.”

“Er…”

“Tell me about your daughter. The one who would have one of my precious roses.”

“Emma? What do you need to know about her? She’s my baby, the youngest of the lot!” He almost said that she was the apple of his eye, far more dear to him than his older two, but he held his tongue out of discretion.

“She is the one who will buy you back your freedom.”

*

“Emma! Bring me a cup of tea, you lazy bitch!” Adrienne woke up full of vinegar and suffering from her monthly misery, heralding that Cordelia and Emma would soon be in similar straits. 

“There’s the pot calling the kettle black,” Christian muttered from the kitchen table, staring up pitifully at his younger sister as she stirred a pot of hot corn mush on the stove. Emma sighed and rolled her eyes before she filled her brother’s cup with the last of their precious coffee for the month. Christian wallowed in bed later than usual that morning with a hangover so bad that even his hair hurt.

“She’ll keep calling and shrieking like that if I don’t get up there with it.”

“She needs to get it herself,” Christian grumbled, even though he had no compunction about letting wait on him.

“Fix me one, too,” Cordelia chimed in from the doorway as she headed for the sitting room wrapped in an afghan blanket with her knitting basket. Emma sighed again and fixed everyone’s cup. But her spoon stilled over the diminishing jar of sugar as she heard clopping hooves and low whickers outside. She dropped the spoon into Adrienne’s empty cup with a clink and ran from the kitchen, skirts flapping behind her.

“Where on earth are you going?”

“Papa! It’s Papa!” she called over her shoulder. Cordelia shrieked and chucked her knitting needles onto the ottoman. Behind her, Emma heard her middle sister’s feet thundering down the stairs. She hurried out into the cold, bright morning light, and her face felt like it would split with joy. “PAPA! PAPA!” His wagon was still almost a quarter of a mile away from their humble farmhouse, but she picked up her skirts and sprinted toward him, heart pounding. She was so relieved that he was all right, especially since he was gone two days longer than he’d anticipated, and they’d had no word from him. No one in the village had seen any sign of Winston or his wagon, and his absence was making Sebastian bolder with his suggestions, which annoyed her. The way his eyes raked over her was unsettling, and he often stood too close, choking her with the scent of his cologne and the oppressive way he swallowed up her personal space.

Winston brought the wagon to a stop and his laughter at his daughter’s enthusiasm was choked and awkward. But he climbed down from his perch and caught her up in his embrace, and Emma felt her eyes smart. He still felt like her father, still sounded like him as he scolded her.

“You’ll catch your death. Where’s your cloak?”

“Hanging up where it belongs. If I don’t put the clothes away, no one else will,” she countered as she kissed the top of his head. But when she pulled back from him, she was alarmed. His eyes were bloodshot and ringed with dark bruises that revealed that he hadn’t slept.

But what surprised her more were his clothes. Winston wore far richer garb than what he had when he departed, including a fine gray wool coat and vest, gleaming, black leather boots, a snowy white silk shirt, and a thick red muffler around his neck. What intrigued her even more was his wagon, which seemed to groan with its burdens.

“Father, your ship! You found your ship! Emma, look at all of the things he brought back!” Cordelia’s hands flew up to her mouth, and she emitted little shrieks as she began to inspect the wagon’s contents. Adrienne soon joined her, and Emma said nothing about the fact that neither of them greeted her father with anything resembling true affection.

“Come inside. I’ve made tea.” Emma attempted to lead him inside, tugging on his sleeve. He stopped her and gave her a weak smile.

“I didn’t forget my promise,” he reminded her gruffly. “This is for you.” He reached up onto the wagon and brought out something long and narrow, wrapped in delicate lawn. Emma gasped at the flawless, sturdy white rose and lifted it to her nose, breathing in the intoxicating fragrance.

“You shouldn’t have.” She kissed his cheek. Winston nodded, overcome with emotion.

“I know, darling. I know.”

*

His daughters chattered at him nonstop, which he certainly expected, but Christian was strangely subdued and quiet at the breakfast table. “You look thin,” he accused his only son.

“So do you,” he shot back as he dolefully sipped his coffee.

“Brother dear woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” Emma offered with a sly smile. Christian returned it, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Adrienne and Cordelia had already left the table, leaving their dishes behind, half-finished for their sister to clean up. They helped their father earlier to unload the wagon and to bring what they thought was his merchandise inside the parlor. They were sifting through it, crowing over the fine jewelry and fighting over the lush silks and other sundries.

“Give that back! Father brought it back for me, because it matches my eyes,” Adrienne snapped as she snatched an emerald pendant away from Cordelia.

“Grabby little wretch,” Cordelia hissed. “If you’re taking that, then I’m taking the red silk. I can have it made up into a gown for the ball this spring.”

“Take it; I don’t want it, anyway. You’ll look like a slut in it.”

“You don’t need to look the part, do you?” Cordelia smirked, ducking her sister’s open palm.

“ _Girls!_ That’s enough!” Winston bellowed. His face was florid as he eyed his middle daughter. “What’s this I’m hearing?”

“Nothing, Father,” she lied, smiling prettily and showing her dimples.

“Nothing new, anyway,” Christian muttered. He’d already picked briefly through his father’s offerings and came away with a linen shirt, wool socks, and a jaunty looking plum-colored cap, but he wanted little else. His greedy sisters could have it all, and he wouldn’t give a damn.

His world was a black, cruel place. Christian couldn’t be bothered to give a damn about anything, anymore. He was so absorbed in the memory of his own ordeal that he didn’t heed his father’s sorry condition and give it the gravity it deserved.

Emma, however, tended their father’s needs with good humor and concern, never leaving his side from the moment he set foot in the house.

*

Sundown found them finishing a modest supper of stewed greens and bread; Winston promised a grand feast the following day, when he took the rest of his wares to market. “Emma,” he said grimly, pulling the dish towel from his youngest’s hands, “come with me.”

“The washing-up’s not done, Papa.”

“Come. Sit with me. It can wait.” Winston led his daughter into their humble parlor and threw another log onto the fire, poking down the cinders.

“You look tired, Papa. Do you need some chamomile? I can make you some.”

“There’s no need. I won’t sleep tonight.”

“Papa… what’s wrong?” He turned to her, and she saw how haggard he looked. The noncommittal smile that he forced onto his face faltered and dissolved, and Winston’s eyes dropped to the floor.

“Everything.” He turned his back on her, and Emma sat with her hands folded in her lap, suddenly uncomfortable. “Emma, I’ve done something unforgivable.”

“You could never do anything that I couldn’t forgive you for, Papa. I love you. I’m so happy that you’ve come home, I was so worried!” Emma exclaimed, rising from her seat to embrace him again. He clung to her just as fiercely, but she felt him tremble, and his chest shook; she realized that he was sobbing. “Papa… please, tell me, what’s wrong?”

“I’ve done… the worst thing a father can do. That a man can do. I made a bargain, Emma. A cruel, unreasonable bargain, because I’m a monster. And a thief.”

“You’ve never stolen a thing in your life!” Emma argued, releasing her father long enough to take his hands, as though he were the child, not she. “I’m just glad you made it back here safely. Why were you gone so long?”

“I trespassed where I didn’t belong. And out of trying to keep my promise to you – to all of you – I committed a grievous sin. I didn’t think it was wrong, and in doing what I did, I’ve lost everything. _Everything._ ” His voice broke, and his face collapsed in sobs again. Emma mopped at his reddened, damp cheeks with her handkerchief, alarmed and frightened at his reaction.

“You came home with everything we could ever need to rebuild what we lost before, Papa. We can start over. It’s all right. You haven’t lost anything,” she corrected him, smiling to reassure him. But he shook his head, and his eyes looked hollow and lost.

“Emma… I’ve lost _you."_


	4. Payment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma approaches the Beast, keeping her father’s dreadful promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. I’m neglecting my LoMy stories, but I’m having fun imagining this one unfolding in my head, and it won’t let me go.

They would have been ruined, Winston explained to her. He scarcely looked at Emma as he told her his account. His watery blue eyes stared down into his teacup, and his hands shook.

“She threatened to ruin our crops. She isn’t human. She speaks with a woman’s voice, with one’s words, but that’s where the likeness stops.”

“She flies,” Emma murmured in wonder. “Is she really so gruesome?”

“I won’t be able to get that face from my dreams,” Winston admitted, but then he stopped short, realizing that he was stoking his daughter’s fears. But Emma pleaded for him to go on.

“The creature lives in a castle?”

“It’s enormous, but dark and lonely.”

“Perhaps it won’t be, with another person in it,” Emma told him dryly. She sighed and drank the rest of her tea. “There’s no help for it, then. I need to go.”

“Emma!” her father sputtered. “Just like that?”

“Dragging my feet won’t stop the rain, Father.” Her lack of the use of “Papa” with him chastened him, but he followed her to the kitchen as she swept up their teacups and dunked them into the washtub. She moved briskly, tidying up the tables, covering the bread basket with a towel and sweeping up crumbs. Her movements were methodical and well-practiced and her demeanor was serene. Maintaining her nightly routine was calming.

It helped nothing. Her stomach fluttered and churned with anxiety. She was being _sent away._ Emma listened to her sisters upstairs, laughing and arguing over the gifts that her father brought back. Christian had retired early, and Emma worried about him, but she knew it would destroy her brother if their father found about his attack.

Her brother’s memories still burned in her mind, stirring her from her reverie. 

Christian! She needed to tell him goodbye! Emma felt an ugly chill swamp her at the thought of losing contact with her brother. “Father?” Emma murmured as she washed the dishes.

“Yes, darling?”

“Did… did your host say when it would be okay for me to come back?” Winston was silent, and she felt him shrink back from her elbow. Emma turned to face him and felt slightly sick when she saw him pale.

“She didn’t.”

“She didn’t say when?”

“She didn’t say it was okay.”

“Oh. All right, then.” Emma’s chin quivered, but she turned away before her father could see it. She finished the chores quickly and left her father to his evening pipe. She didn’t even give the bitter thought that he was able to afford his precious tobacco now its full head.

Emma read for an hour, savoring her novel as though it were her last. When she crept upstairs, her sisters’ low snores drifted to her ears. She dressed herself in a warm nightgown and left her stockings on her feet, since the floor boards were drafty. She headed for Christian’s room and cracked it open mere centimeters to look in on him.

In the light of her lantern, she saw his huge blue eyes in the dark, awake and anguished. “Chris,” she whispered, and she let herself in, closing the door before she ran to him. He didn’t reject her, and she heard his harsh, shuddering breath as her arms coiled around his neck. Christian breathed in the sweet scent of her hair and clung to her. “I’m sorry,” she told him.

“You didn’t do it. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I’m sorry I intruded. It was wrong, but Christian, I couldn’t help it. I had to know what was wrong and how you got hurt.”

“You were always such a nosy little brat,” Christian muttered, and his voice was muffled by tears.

“I don’t want to leave you.”

“What? Emma, what on earth are you going on about?” He pulled back from her and gripped her shoulders instead. Her face was full of regret.

“Father is sending me away.”

“No! He can’t!”

“Yes, he can. It’s his right. I need to do it to help him, Chris. A lot depends on it.”

“Is he marrying you off? Or something worse?” He looked horrified at the thought. “I won’t let him use you to-“

“No!” she whispered sharply. “He’ll hear you. You’ll wake everyone up. You have to understand, it’s not like that. This is bigger than me, Chris.”

“Of all the people he could send away, Emma, why you?”

_Why, indeed._ Emma felt slightly bitter but gave him a cavalier smile, shrugging. “Why not me, I guess. I’m a loose end, Christian. Cordelia and Adrienne are the eldest. He can marry them off. That’s what you do with your oldest daughters. I was never one for the thought of marriage, anyway.”

“Not for _conventional_ marriage,” he clarified. His mouth was mulish, and he gave her a little shake. “What does Father plan to do with you? Is he selling you?” Emma looked appalled.

“No!”

“Emma… he came home with more gifts than you can shake a stick at. Money. Jewels. Silks. This is after years of the lot of us living like paupers, and suddenly, you come to me and tell me that you have to leave me.” A rush of tingles ran over Emma’s flesh, and her cheeks flamed with shame. She looked down at her hands. “Look at me. Tell me it isn’t true.”

“Don’t say that!” she pleaded sharply. “He’s doing the only thing he can do! You don’t understand!”

“You’re right! I DON’T understand why you’re agreeing to this, and why you have to leave to… Lord only knows what. Emma, if he’s whoring you out to be someone’s mistress, so help me, I’ll kill him.” Christian’s blue eyes flashed. Emma scowled.

“Chris, I’m only telling you this so you won’t feel that I deserted you.” Christian’s face fell.

“You are,” he muttered, and he let go of her with a little shove.

“Don’t make me feel sorry I came in here,” Emma snapped. 

“He brings you some trinkets, and you’re leaving because you feel guilty, as though you have to do your duty!”

“It’s not out of guilt!”

But he was right.

Winston had trespassed in a demon’s garden on her behalf, to bring her a silly gift that would wither and die. And to pay for that crime, the beast would take from Winston something that it considered equal in value.

“I leave tomorrow, before sundown,” Emma informed him crisply. She began to rise from the edge of his bed, but Christian grabbed her wrist.

“Don’t. There has to be another way.”

“There isn’t. And I won’t trouble anyone else with trying to come up with an alternative. It will only make me feel worse. I love you. But I need you to do something for me.”

“Name it.”

“Let me in.”

“What?”

“Let me inside.” She touched his temple. “I only saw a brief impression, Chris. Let me have the rest of it.”

“Emma! Are you daft? No. I won’t let you see that! It’s horrid! It was foul! I… _I’m_ foul!”

“I need to see their faces, darling.”

“No,” he told her firmly.

“Christian, whoever did that could do it again to someone else. If it had been me-“

“Don’t! Don’t even say that,” he told her in clipped tones. His mouth was a thin, hard line, and his grip on her arms began to hurt. Emma wouldn’t back down.

“I won’t stop nagging you until you tell me. Or show me.”

“It hurts,” he grated out, and his voice wavered.

“Then let me take it away from you for a while.” Emma reached up and laid her palm against his feverish cheek, and he leaned into the caress. His eyes glistened, but he wouldn’t allow the tears to fall. “Close your eyes, brother.” He obeyed, and Christian felt her bypass the barriers within his mind, one by one, until she appropriated it, melding his essence with her own.

Once again, Emma saw things through Christian’s eyes. She didn’t linger long as the memories played themselves out before her, some pleasant, some naughty. Some of the impressions were tactile, like the feel of a terrier’s fur ruffling and sifting through his long, slender fingers; the taste of their mother’s corned beef brisket and buttered potatoes, something they hadn’t enjoyed in several years; the fizzy sensations in his stomach the first time he stole a kiss from a girl, and later, a boy, an event that cemented his preferences; the acknowledgment that his father thought that he was too soft.

She saw the forms materialize around her quickly, seeing the brick outer walls of the Wild Duck and the rain sheeting down around her. Once again, she smelled garbage and putrid waste, underscored by the stench of whisky. Emma suddenly felt herself lurching forward, unsettled and thrown off-balance; she’d been shoved. 

“Prissy boy!”

“You won’t get away with cheating at cards in my salon,” a voice behind Emma boomed. She suddenly heard her voice calling out, dictating the memory in Christian’s words.

“Off! Get off! There’s no need to be so hasty! I can pay you back, Shaw!”

Christian felt Emma’s hands go cold and clammy.

“You’ll pay. Make no mistake.” Emma heard sniggers and guffaws around her. Emma turned toward the new voice, wondering why it was familiar, and she saw Donald Pierce giving her a venomous smile.

Myriad hands pulled at her, ripping at her clothing, and Emma suppressed a scream. She broke the contact sharply and reeled as she tore herself from their rapport. When she opened her eyes, Christian was wrapping her in a blanket.

“You’re shivering.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I warned you,” he scolded.

“We have to tell Adrienne.”

“She’ll never listen.”

“She has to!”

“Emma…”

“I don’t care if I have to beat it into her head!” She was adamant, even frantic, but Christian wouldn’t let her labor under any delusions.

“She wouldn’t, she won’t… she already didn’t. Emma, Adrienne called me a liar.” That caught his sister’s attention.

“Bloody hell.”

*

Emma’s father concocted a tale of a faraway, forgotten, sick aunt who needed caring for, and he decided that Emma was just the woman for the job. Emma began to pack a trunk for herself, until her father stopped her. His eyes were downcast as he stilled her hand, preventing her from adding the folded blouse to her luggage.

“You won’t need that. The creature will provide everything you need.” 

“Well. She has everything worked out.” Emma stared around her room in despair, and Winston read her mind.

“A satchel might suffice. Here. Take these.” Winston packed three of her novels into a worn sack and sifted through the open trunk, removing a few of her garments and transferring them inside. Emma felt awkward watching her father help her with the task, drawing it out by methodically folding each item, telling her which items to leave behind, neatening up her bureau and armoire as he went. Emma thought her heart would break, but she remained calm and serene. Her father’s sorrow leaked through her psychic façade, despite his encouraging smile.

“You never cared for farm life.”

“There was nothing wrong with it.”

“It will be a change in scenery.” Winston took her hand and squeezed it, and Emma fondly kissed his cheek. “It’s an amazing place, but daunting. It needs the light only you can shine inside it, darling.”

“You’d send me alone?”

“I can only accompany you as far as the edge of the woods.”

“How will I find my way?” Emma felt a frisson of fear bloom in her chest, and she felt the childish urge to burrow into her father’s chest like she had as a child. Winston reached into his robe and pulled out an object wrapped in cloth. He unwrapped it, and something silver glinted up at Emma from the soft flannel. It was an antique mirror with a long, ornately carved handle, something a woman would keep on her vanity.

“It’s lovely.”

“It’s magic. It’s how I found my way home. It’s a beacon. It will lead you to the castle. The mistress of the castle will wait there for you. Emma, promise me you won’t be afraid. The creature despises fear.”

“So do I. Don’t feel any for me, Papa.”

“I can’t help it.”

“You’ll break my heart.”

“Mine’s already breaking.” He sighed heavily as she embraced him. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to be courted by dozens of suitors, so I could drive them off with my musket.”

“Dreams change.”

“Your sisters will drive me batty.”

“I’ll tell you where Christian’s been hiding his rum.”

Despite his lofty words, cold blackness settled in Winston’s heart. He was losing the apple of his eye, due entirely to his own folly.

When they descended the stairs, Christian was nowhere to be found. Adrienne glared up from her crocheting and Cordelia smirked over her cup of tea.

“Nice of you to join us while the rest of us are starving,” Adrienne snarled.

“Then perhaps you can put down the yarn and pick up the pot,” Winston suggested. “Emma’s excused from making supper.” Before she could protest, he held up his palm in warning. “She’s done more for you two layabouts than you deserve and asked little to nothing in return.” Adrienne opened her mouth like a gasping fish; Cordelia gawped and dropped her teaspoon with a clink onto the saucer. Winston pulled out Emma’s chair to make his point, and she dutifully sat and folded her hands in her lap. She hid her smile smugly as her sisters did as they were told, griping and arguing as they found cured, dried meat and peeled onions.

But it was a somber meal; it was the last one that Emma would spend with her family. Her motions were mechanical as she sopped up the gravy with the final crusts of bread.

*

Winston watched Emma give each of her sisters dutiful hugs as she prepared to depart for their “aunt’s” home. For Christian, she offered up a crushing embrace. They’d stayed the night together, with Emma chastely bundled next to him, chatting quietly in the dark before they both fell asleep.

“Return to us. I don’t care how,” Christian murmured into her hair. Adrienne and Cordelia scowled.

“Of course she’s coming back, stop your blubbering.” Christian glared at them over the top of Emma’s blonde head.

“It’s all right. I love you.” She kissed the corner of his mouth and released him reluctantly. Winston led her toward the wagon bravely, but his daughters didn’t see the white-knuckled grip he had on the reins as the Clydesdales’ hooves clopped down the gravel path. They were silent for most of the trip, and as they traveled, Emma huddled more deeply into the blanket her father thoughtfully provided. The sun sank lower in the sky, painting it with pinkish lavender clouds.

“Pink sky at night,” Winston mused, invoking the old rhyme. He hoped that the creature was in a receptive, peaceful mood. Emma wondered at the irony in his voice, until he remembered what he told her.

_She controls the very winds. No creature that walks God’s earth can make it rain. Don’t provoke her. Try to please her, but please, don’t show her fear._


	5. Into the Belly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scurrying feet. Beating wings. Eyes glowing in the dark. And confronting the thing that goes bump in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *listens to more crickets* Hello? Anybody there?
> 
> I hope the last short update didn’t cheese anyone off. I don’t always have time to update anything, since my PC is always occupied, or I am. And don’t even get me started on tapestry syndrome or writer’s block.

If anyone was wondering, Emma’s family here in this story actually are Marvel characters from Grant Morrison’s run. I almost never use original characters, since I suck at them, but I’m improvising them off the top of my head, since there was little source material from the comics to base Emma’s family on. I had the impression that Christian was a little flamboyant.

Emma stirred from her half-doze in the wagon when thunder rumbled in the distance. She didn’t realize how dark the clouds had grown, and the wind was biting her through her heavy coat. “She knows we’re coming,” her father muttered.

“How far away are we, Papa?”

“There’s the tower; you can just see it from over the trees.” She followed his hand and made a sound of awe. The structure had to be huge! She saw birds nesting in what appeared to be a belfry, and a flock of them took wing at the next boom of thunder. Their cheeps almost sounded fearful, which didn’t help Emma’s worry.

Winston reached again for the mirror, withdrawing it from his coat pocket. “Take it now. It’s yours. You’ll need it.”

“Won’t you need it to find your way back?”

“No. I won’t forget. And I must leave you soon. The Windrider despises me now. She won’t take kindly to me crossing her threshold again, darling.” Emma was aghast.

“Surely she would offer the horses a place to rest-“

“I know firsthand that she won’t.” Her father’s eyes hardened. “I won’t infringe on her hospitality again.” Emma remained silent for the rest of the ride, staring down miserably into the mirror. Slowly, her reflection disappeared in the glass, and she saw a copse of pines materialize in its surface. As she looked up, she noticed the cedars and elms giving way to pines nearly a half a mile ahead.

It was already telling her where to go. Emma shivered and burrowed more deeply into her coat. The air soon smelled of ozone, a sign of impending rain. Emma thought bitterly that the weather didn’t approve of her travel plans…

Then it occurred to her. The beast controlled the weather, her father said. Was she _threatening_ them?

Emma opened up her psychic awareness of their environment, searching for any mental signature or flicker of human emotions around them. It was difficult to focus around her own unease and frustration, and her father’s tension was palpable. But Emma closed out the other external sounds, like the gusting winds and birdcalls and the rustling trees, and she was rewarded by a flicker of emotion. She caught a fleeting thought, furtive and impatient. 

_I’m waiting._

“Goodness,” she murmured. Impatient, now? The owner’s psyche was female, as Emma’s father had mentioned, and there was something haughty in that brief communication that almost amused Emma.

“I can go no farther. You will need to make the rest of this journey alone, darling. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Her father’s voice was quiet as he brought the horses to a halt. Emma covered his large hand with hers, squeezing it, and he gripped her fingers so hard she thought they would snap. His breath shuddered from his chest.

“I’ll see you again. I’ll come home one day.”

“Emma… I must tell you something. Forgive me for leaving it out. It’s been hard…”

“I know, Papa.”

“The creature stipulated that you must stay with her forever.”

Emma’s heart sank like a stone, seeming to lodge itself in her feet.

“You told them it was just for a while.”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he replied in a small voice. Tears leaked from his eyes and made the layer of chalky white stubble along his jaw glisten as they ran down his cheeks. “Emma, I don’t…know what I’ll do without you.”

_Don’t make me go!_ She wouldn’t let the childish words leave her mouth. Emma resolutely stiffened and pulled her hand free, giving her father a slight pat on her way down from the wagon. Winston followed suit and retrieved her bag, handing it to her, but she had to jerk it from his grip, too, as though he couldn’t bear to let go as long as she held it, as long as he held some small part of her.

“I love you, Papa.”

“Godspeed, darling. Remember me. Remember that your Papa loves you.”

“Be kind to Chris,” she blurted. “Please, Father. He needs you.”

“All right,” he conceded reluctantly. As she retreated from him, he gave her a jaunty salute. She waved, and her hood blew back from her hair, letting loose tendrils whip loose from her long plait. Her cheeks and lips were rosy from the cold, and her eyes watered slightly from the wind, but their expression was cold. She couldn’t show Winston weakness, or he’d never let her go.

He _had_ to let her go.

Emma spun and ran into the woods. The mirror caught the reflection of the first bolts of lightning, bluish-white and crackling, and the sound of thunder made the hairs on her nape stand on end. Her legs burned from the jolt to her system as she hurried toward her uncertain destiny. The wind tore at her skirts, making them whip around her ankles, and the drafts bit through her wool stockings.

Only when she was certain that her father was far enough behind her did she let herself weep.

Winston climbed back into his wagon and guided his matched horses home, feeling dead and cold inside. His daughter reminded him of a fleeing, broken angel. A glass of rum called to him, and he longed to crawl into bed and never, ever wake up.

“Be kind, Windrider. Be kind.” His whisper was soft and hoarse, snatched away by the wind. Emma heard his sentiment in his thoughts.

That frightened her most of all.

*

The mirror almost seemed to speak to her. It pulsed and glowed in her hands the closer she came to the castle. She felt a faint pull when she seemed to be going in the correct direction, and she was grateful that her trip was almost at an end, because her feet were freezing. Emma lost count of how many puddles she trod through, and the hem of her dress was a mess. She didn’t see what appeal she’d hold for the creature if she greeted her looking like a drowned cat.

But perhaps it didn’t matter.

Emma had no clue what the beast wanted with her. Christian’s accusations that her father “whored” her out still rang in her ears. Was that indeed what Emma’s host expected? Worse, what on earth was she supposed to do to please it? Emma scoffed at the notion. She was borrowing trouble. Perhaps the beast only wanted a servant, and Emma would be no worse off than if she’d stayed behind with Adrienne and Cordy. Miserably, she pondered her life’s direction and wondered why heaven and the fates decided to forsake her visions of doing something loftier and more meaningful than being a simple farm girl.

“At least I won’t just be a wife,” she muttered. She recoiled at the thought of being married to a man like Sebastian Shaw or any of the other idiot villagers who gawked at her when she wandered through the marketplace. The image of Shaw in Christian’s memories sickened her, especially since he’d been so effusive and polite the last time she encountered him. Even being in the rain and mud was better than letting him trap her in his stifling gilded carriage.

The mirror showed Emma a creek up ahead that was growing swollen with the rainfall. She steeled herself when she felt as though she was being watched. Emma spied fox kits burrowing into a hole and a squirrel skittering up a tree, but not before it stared back at her with curious, beady black eyes.

“She’s waiting,” it chittered in an almost elfin voice.

“Bloody hell!” She froze. “You talk.”

“Get used to it. And get moving, eh?” It fled up into the oak’s swaying branches, and Emma shivered from surprise as she continued toward the creek.

“I’m losing my mind,” she muttered. “That beastie didn’t just talk to me and tell me ‘how do you do.’”

“I would hope not,” a voice interjected from several feet to her left. A gray hare stood on its hind feet, nose twitching charmingly.

“I beg your pardon!”

“You might have to remind Angelo to watch his manners, but he’s a good lad,” the hare informed her smugly. She hopped up and stared up at Emma. “Aren’t you a sight, lass. You’re cold?” The creature’s voice was solicitous, still doing little to reassure her.

Animals were _talking_ to her.

“Er, yes.”

“Step lively, then. You’re going the right way. Watch the creek, the rocks are a bit slippy.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.”

“You came alone?”

“As I was instructed to do.”

“Smart girl.” The hare nodded and then cleaned her long, floppy ear with her forepaw. “Carry on, then.” The hare scrambled off in the same direction that Emma was headed, and she chose to follow it until she reached the creek. The water rushed in foaming wavelets, goaded by the rain as it began falling in nearly horizontal sheets. Emma’s cheeks felt numb as the wind continued to whip her hair and make her eyes water, but she pressed on. She heeded the hare’s warning and braced herself, gasping with her first steps into the frigid water. Thankfully, it never reached any higher than her knees, but she still managed to soak her skirt, even lifting it as high as she could above the currents. She hurried to the bank and kept up a quick pace, following the flashing white puff of the hare’s tail.

The castle awaited her at the end of a long, winding gravel path. The mirror flashed, catching her eye, and she saw a door with a large, ornate knocker, telling her where to enter. Emma was hungry again despite the crude, remarkable dinner that Adrienne and Cordelia fixed, and her stomach growled its discontent, overruling the complaints from her feet. Her feet squelched inside her wet shoes and her stockings were a lost cause. Emma looked and felt like a drowned rat.

At least she would have shelter, and she still had her sack of belongings, glad that she didn’t drop them in the creek. In the distance, Emma heard the low whicker of horses; she wondered if there was a stable nearby. As she neared the castle, lightning flashed, illuminating the silhouette of the turrets and exquisitely carved stone gargoyles. Thunder heralded her arrival and she sighed.

“I’m not feeling any better about this,” Emma muttered aloud. “That doesn’t help.”

“D’ye always talk t’yuirself like that?” Emma turned, feeling a chill ripple up her spine at the sound of a voice that was distinctly female, but half-growl. She turned and nearly jumped out of her skin at the sight of the large, russet-furred wolf that stared at her with gleaming, yellow-green eyes.

“Oh, not you, too.”

“Well, excuse me, then, if ye dinna want tae spare a moment tae chat,” the creature sniffed haughtily. She huffed and shook herself, flicking rain from her fur. Emma wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“I’m freezing, starving, and my feet are killing me. Excuse _me_ if I’m not feeling very social right now.”

“All right, then. Dinna blame me, lass, I’m na’ the one making it pour out.” The wolf prepared to run off, but Emma called out.

“Wait! Do you have a name?”

“Rahne.”

“I know it’s raining, beast.”

“Nay, ye ninny. Rahne. That’s m’name.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Why? I like it just fine. Ye’d best be getting inside, lass.”

The wolf loped off, leaving Emma to her musings. She wandered up the path, chased by the rain and wind, and by the time she reached the door with its demonic-looking brass knocker, she was too knackered to care. She reached for the large ring and rapped it three times against the heavy oak. She was breathing hard and her fingers felt numb; the bag she carried felt leaden after holding onto it for so long.

The door’s hinges creaked and squealed as it opened, but Emma was greeted by an empty foyer. “Hello?” she called out softly. “Anyone home?” She realized it was a silly question as soon as the words left her mouth. Emma let herself inside, but as soon as she took two steps, she realized that she was tracking mud inside; belatedly she removed her wet shoes, barely able to feel the cold marble floor beneath her frozen toes. The home was drafty, not that it was poorly made, but because the ceilings were so high, and the room was so airy and open. There were few furnishings, but they were rich and of fine quality. It smelled clean, but there was a faint mustiness, as though it had been closed up for a long time. Emma wrinkled her nose and slowly made her way down a long corridor. “Hello? I just arrived,” she informed her absent host. “It would have been nice to have someone meet me out front.”

“No need to scold.” Emma turned and braced herself for more madness, and she wasn’t disappointed. Another hare, this one brown with a white underbelly, twitched its nose at her. “And we did send Rahne to greet you, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I meant…er…”

“Someone human?” he scoffed. “We’re as close to that as you’ll find around here.”

“What’s your name?” Emma murmured as she knelt down closer to the hare’s eye level. Clearly, he appreciated it, because he hopped forward and gave her an elegant bow.

“Manuel de la Rocha,” he informed her crisply. “And you’re honored to make my acquaintance.”

“Scamp,” she chuckled. Emma reached out and stroked his long ears for a moment before they twitched, shaking off her touch. He was adorable.

“You look cold, _hermosa._ I can warm you, if you like.” The creature’s voice was smug and suggestive.

“Well!” she huffed. But before he could plead any further for her affections, a low, hunkering growl emanated from the corridor, and Emma shivered.

“She’s waiting,” Manuel explained grimly. There was a hint of sympathy in his voice. “Come along, _senorita._ We’ve kept her long enough.”

“But I’m a mess, can’t I just-“

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied quickly. He pointed his left paw toward a dimly lit room. “In there.”

“That’s it? She won’t even make herself known, or seen? What kind of civilized person acts like that when they’re expecting company?” Emma accused as she made her way toward the room. She smelled a hint of smoke and cedar, and she wondered if someone had just lit a fire. That quelled her unease; she was more cold than curious, now, and she needed to warm her sore, numb hands and feet. Emma heard another almost cavernous growl echo through the corridor, which was devoid of rugs or other insulation. A scant few framed portraits dressed the walls, staring at her with sympathetic eyes. She didn’t take the time to study them in detail. Her hand shook as she reached the door and pushed it the rest of the way open.

_Empty._ Emma expelled an exasperated – yet relieved – breath and covered her fluttering heartbeat with her palm. She scolded herself for being so childishly fearful, but she remembered her father’s impressions of this so-called “Windrider.” How much worse could she be than the verbose, cheeky little critters she’d met so far? Emma noticed a peg on the wall adjacent to the door, and she hung up her coat, glad to be rid of its damp bulk.

She meandered inside the room and groaned in pleasure at the warmth that enveloped. A fire crackled in the grate, and there was a cozy chaise nearby, upholstered in soft, decadent red velvet. Emma sighed as she ran her hand over it, and it was just bouncy enough, just firm enough when she sat down and laid back. The heat bathed her sore toes, making them tingle with returning sensation. She sat her shoes atop her satchel to avoid leaving them wet on the fine floor. Her eyes drifted shut in a mixture of pleasure and exhaustion. _Finally…_

She had perhaps dozed a few seconds when a low curl of wind blew through the chamber, sweeping out some of the luscious warmth.

“You’ve found your way.” Emma’s eyes snapped open and she sat up, fully alert and shocked. Her eyes darted around the room, which she now realized was a library, its walls lined with shelf after shelf of leather-bound books.

“Who’s there?” she demanded.

“It’s not obvious?” the voice purred from behind the heavy tapestry curtains. “You’re father boasted to me that you were smart.” Emma’s cheeks flushed scarlet.

“I’m hardly deficient,” she sniffed.

“I’ll give you one chance to convince me.” A low, howling wind swept around the castle, bringing its chill in through the window. It stirred the curtains enough to make them flutter away from the wall, and Emma noticed a set of brown, bare toes peeking out from beneath their hem.

“Only one chance? You expect much of me.”

“On the contrary, dear; I’ve learned to expect very little of everyone. It was an unpleasant lesson.”

“That doesn’t reassure me.”

“You’re not here to be reassured. You’re here to atone for your father’s crime.” The voice was the same one in her mind, when Emma made her way through the woods. The tone was smoother before, but now, it held a slight burr, a low, underlying growl.

Yet it was female.

“I would walk through the gates of Hades for my father.”

“Bold words.”

“You’re the one hiding behind the curtain.” Emma’s pulse raced, and she knew she was tempting fate with sounding so cavalier, but her heart was pounding in her chest. If she didn’t own her bravado and flaunt it, the beast would know that she was petrified.

“Nay.” 

The wind howled, invading the chamber, but Emma couldn’t tell if it came from the window. Great gusts swept inside, snuffing out the fire in the hearth, to Emma’s dismay. She was freezing again, skin covered in goosebumps, but one stray blast of wind knocked the curtains aside, revealing the figure behind them. Before Emma could process what she saw, the chamber went completely black. “OH!”

She felt, rather than saw, a rustling several feet ahead of her. “Why are you doing this?” The creature didn’t reply. Emma felt an odd tension from her, drawing a taste of her emotions. She attempted to pry into her mind, but felt herself being blocked.

“It’s not polite to pry,” her hostess reminded her.

“Then make me a proper greeting,” Emma challenged. “I would meet you face to face.”

“Would you, now?” The voice chuckled at her, vexing Emma.

Emma hated the dark. “Please. I’m cold. I’ve traveled a long way. I’m here, as my father promised. You can do me this one thing, grant _one_ request.” The wind continued to how outside, even though it stilled within the chamber. Emma’s teeth chattered and she hugged herself. She almost wished she’d taken up Manuel’s questionable offer…

She was at the creature’s mercy, and she hated it. Christian’s memories of his own ordeal haunted her, and she wanted to cry for him, wondering if this was how he felt.

“Very well.” Emma heard the shift in the tapestries as they were drawn away from the wall. In the moonlight sneaking inside the window frame, she saw a silhouette of something round and curving above what had to be the creature’s head. She stood taller than Emma, if her estimate was correct, and her body appeared broader than she imagined.

A ball of sparking, bluish-white light – lightning! – materialized out of nowhere, dancing in the palm of her mysterious hostess. It illuminated the room, throwing shadows haphazardly across the furnishings and walls. The flickering glow lined the features of a face that would haunt Emma’s nightmares.

She was stunning. She was hideous. She was impossible. No one looked like that, or stared with such horrible, intense eyes that devoured what they saw.

They _were_ horns. Long, curving horns of a ram, sprouting from the head of a lioness. She rustled wings – wings! – of downy white feathers tipped in black. They contributed to the illusion of her having a broad trunk at first glance, making her hunch slightly, but she bristled and stood to her full height, squaring her muscular shoulders. She huffed and whuffled as she appraised Emma.

“Dirty little baggage,” the creature mused. “Your father also boasted that you were beautiful.”

“Let’s not talk anymore about my father.” Emma’s voice shook. The beast’s calm demeanor evaporated. She drew back her lips from short, sharp snags and growled, bunching back her short muzzle. Her wings unfolded, beating the air menacingly.

“ _You_ don’t make the rules! I’m the one in control of this house!” Emma nearly tripped over her feet as she scuttled backward. The “Windrider” reached out one long, bony clawed finger and shot one long, sizzling bolt of lightning into the fireplace, reigniting the logs. The fire burned more brightly than it had before, but unfortunately, now Emma could see her much more clearly, and the fury in the beast’s eyes was undiluted and focused solely on her.

She was _furry._ It intrigued her and reviled her at the same time. Her garment was nondescript, a long, flowing robe of indigo blue silk, belted at her hips with a length of snuff-brown cord. It had long, lantern sleeves and a cowl neckline with a hood that would allow her to conceal her face if she chose, but the creature hid nothing, now. “I’m the one who will give you light if I choose it! I’m the one who will take it away if you defy me!” Those eyes changed from murky, slate blue to brilliant white, swirling and glowing with power. Outside the thunder boomed and rocked the castle to its foundations. Emma screamed and cowered in the farthest corner of the library that she could reach. The creature advanced on her, growling a bitter laugh. She heard the rustle of her wings and her clawed toenails scraping along the floor with each step. Emma felt lost and abandoned, cursing the fates that brought her father into the creature’s grasp and the storms that drove him for shelter into the home of a demon. She had no weapon, no way out, unless she could double back around to the window, and she was on her own even if she made it out of the castle. The creature’s growls seemed to reverberate through her, and she could almost swear she could feel her hot breath rushing over her skin…

She tripped over a small step stool and landed in an ungainly heap, skirts bunching up and baring her creamy skin and long, shapely legs up to the knee. Emma smothered a sob, annoyed at herself and losing hope for her safety. “Please. Please.”

She felt the creature crouch over her, wings still spread, and the long fingers curled around her upper arm, jerking her around to face her. The Windrider stared down at her quizzically. Her warm breath misted over Emma’s face, stirring the tendrils of her hair. “Are you all right?”

“Please.” 

“Please, what?”

“Don’t hurt me.”

“Lesson number one: Don’t run from me. Ever.”

“I promise.”

“Your father made me a promise. You must see it through.” Those unsettling eyes swirled gradually back to blue. The halo of static that suffused the creature’s hair and made it rise now dissipated from it, allowing it to fall back down along her back.

“I will.” Emma dashed the tears from her eyes before they could streak down her cheeks. “But I’ll do it on my terms.” The beast huffed, narrowing her eyes evilly.

But to Emma’s surprise, she rose to her full height, threw back her horned head and laughed. “Proud boast.”

“I won’t obey you unless I choose to. And you might rule this house, but I don’t belong to you. I only belong to myself.” Emma rose to her feet and stood her ground, heat rising into her face. She was still cold and tired, and so far the hospitality had been less than satisfactory. “You made my father a promise, too.”

“Twasn’t a promise. It was a threat.”

“You agreed to send him on his way and not to rain down your fury upon our land, correct? If I came to you?”

“There are conditions.” Before Emma could press, those long fingers snapped around her arm again and she jerked her against her, earning a breathy gasp. The beast cocked her head and leaned down, regarding her at her leisure. Her nostrils twitched and she breathed in Emma’s scent, mulling it over. Emma shivered at her closeness, but she was grateful for the warmth that the creature seemed to radiate, pressed along her body. 

“You’re getting a bit familiar.”

“You’re shivering.” A claw flicked back a tendril of Emma’s hair where it fell into her eyes. “And you’re filthy.” Her voice was low and soft at close range, free of its earlier growl.

“It couldn’t be helped.”

“I hope it’s not a habit.”

“So says the one covered in fur.” But the creature didn’t seem to mind her grime enough to let her go. She closed in on Emma’s scent, muzzle grazing the crest of her cheek and exploring the crest of her ear. Butterflies took wing in Emma’s stomach at the fleeting contact, and she shut her eyes at the sight of that leonine face leaning in so close to hers. Yet she couldn’t help be fascinated at the feel of that short, sleek fur and infinitesimal brush of her whiskers.

The creature’s withdrawal from her was sharp and almost unwelcome. Emma felt disoriented as the Windrider backed off, pushing her away with a little shove.

“You’ll need a room. You won’t have to sleep here tonight.” It took Emma a moment to realize that by “here,” she meant the library, not the castle itself, and she didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

Emma instinctively followed her as she swept out into the corridor. “Show her to her room!” she roared, to no one in particular, in Emma’s opinion. But in the dimly lit hall, she saw eyes glittering and shapes lurking in the shadows. Several animals crept forward, watching Emma expectantly. “Put her to bed!” the Windrider growled. “And give her a bath, she’s ripe!” The beast strode off, too quickly for Emma to follow, seemingly finished with her.

“Well!” Emma snapped. The creature turned and growled at her in warning.

“Lesson number two… stay out of my garden.”

“It’s dark out, anyway-“

“STAY OUT OF MY GARDEN!”

“All right,” she murmured, watching her retreating back and feeling the sting of her scold.


	6. Hospitality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma settles into her new accommodations, but she’s still wary of the mistress of the manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just archiving and trying to update this. It's languished for a couple of years.

Emma wondered how on earth she got into this predicament.

She followed the mysterious “Windrider’s” servants upstairs, noting that it, too, was made from gleaming, gold-veined marble. Her feet protested the climb and the cold stone, and she shivered from how drafty the house felt. The creature was little help, and seemed to have no sympathy for Emma’s more delicate constitution. Emma remembered that her hostess possessed a lush coat of fur over her body, and she felt envious and resentful.

“I guess she doesn’t care if I freeze here,” she muttered as they headed down the corridor. She noticed proud, curved pillars and more ornately framed artwork hanging on the walls.

“You won’t be cold. Mistress won’t allow it.”

“I’m frozen from head to toe,” Emma accused.

“Trust that Mistress will take care of your needs. All of them.” Santo lumbered ahead of her, but he paused a moment and stood on his hind legs, examining her. “Whatever assumptions you arrived here with, shed them now.”

“I was brought here under threat, to fulfill my father’s oath.”

“Don’t beat that point to death. You’re our guest, and you will be treated as such, unless you anger Mistress. Then you will be her prisoner.”

“So I’m only as free as I want to be?” Emma muttered sourly. “I find that very reassuring.” He stopped at the center of the corridor and selected the door to their left, butting it open with his great, black head. “You will sleep here tonight.”

“Thank you.”

 

“Take that,” Santo ordered, motioning with one large paw toward a torch along the wall. “Use it to light the fire in the hearth. I’m ill-equipped.”

“I suppose you are,” Emma agreed sagely. She took the torch obediently and entered the room, and she stood in awe of the rich furnishings.

The bed was enormous, a four-poster, canopied confection of sheer white curtains, dressed in a thick, tapestry bed spread of pale blue brocade. “Oh, my,” she mused. “It’s lovely.”

“Mistress guessed this one might be to your liking,” Santo bragged in his low growl. “A bath will be brought up directly.”

“That ripe, am I?”

“I’m not particular about these kinds of things.”

“No. I suppose you wouldn’t be,” she mused. “Er… Santo, is it?”

“Aye.”

“Would it be forward… would you find it offensive, if I touched you?”

“Whatever for?”

“It’s not often I encounter bears who speak. And I’d be in a sorry, unfortunate state if I met one who didn’t, up close and personal as we are. We’re on a first name basis, and I wanted to engage my curiosity, if it doesn’t offend you.” She wandered close to him, holding her palm out hesitantly. He emitted a low, whuffling growl.

“You give me too little credit for being a civilized being, madam.”

“I give you full credit,” Emma stammered. “Honestly!”

“Be done with it, then,” he offered reluctantly. “I’m not a housepet.”

“I realize that.” Emma indulged, reaching out and gently combing her fingers through his gleaming, dense ebony fur. “It feels lovely,” she assured him.

“Naturally,” he huffed, but he leaned into her touch, pushing the side of his head into her palm. Emma chuckled and carefully scratched behind his ear. “To the left,” he demanded. “Lower.”

“Certainly.”

“All right, that’s enough,” he muttered, shaking himself vigorously, like a dog would after a swim in a creek. Emma backed off politely.

“Thank you.”

“Glad to oblige.” The bear lumbered toward the door. “Rahne will attend you now.”

“The wolf?” Emma asked skeptically.

“She’s female,” he said with an ursine shrug. “Unless you’d prefer Manuel or Angelo?” There was a hint of cavalier humor in his tone. Emma found it vulgar.

“Certainly not.”

“Then Rahne it is,” he threw over his shoulder. Emma hurried to close the door after him, and she stood staring at the room, still reeling.

“I must be going mad. Creatures don’t talk.” This was a dream. She was still sleeping in her room that she shared – albeit reluctantly – with her sisters in the smallest cot, bundled in the quilt that her mother bequeathed her. Soon she would wake, make breakfast and find her father’s favorite tea cup and pipe. A teeming list of chores, subject to revision and additions, loomed ahead of her. Yes, that was the reality.

But the illusion she lingered in was a tempting one. The bed looked sumptuous, and her bones were weary from her trek. Emma removed her sodden cloak and wondered where it would be best to hang it, until she spied a peg hanging from the wall. She didn’t want to hang it in the armoire until it dried. She made a sound of disgust at her damp skirts, stained here and there with flecks of mud and dirt, and she received another unpleasant surprise when she wandered to the vanity and spied herself in the large cheval mirror.

“Ugh.” No wonder the Windrider was unimpressed. She looked a sight, hair lank and half-undone. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were slightly red from the cold. Emma sighed and unraveled the rest of her plait, combing her fingers through her hair; she was glad to be rid of its unwelcome pull against her scalp. It felt so good to loosen it, and she sighed in relief. She unbuttoned her dress and hung it over the back of the vanity’s upholstered chair, whose cushions matched the comforter in soft hues of blue and shot through with silver threads.

“Gettin’ comfy, lass?” Emma heard the low creak of the door hinge, and she was once again surprised to see not just Rahne, but a second wolf with black fur and a striking white muzzle and mask. Its eyes were black, so dark that the pupils weren’t even visible, and it was larger than Rahne, with thicker, denser fur. Emma made a sound of awe; the creature was beautiful. “Dani, tell yon lassie hello.”

“I don’t need permission,” the beast growled, giving an exasperated little huff that made her nostrils flare. “It’s Danielle, by the way.”

“You’re, er, female, I presume?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“I’m not, er, in the habit of, well… you know…”

“Peering between the legs of just any beastie to tell the difference,” Rahne guessed. “There are ways tae tell besides that.”

“I’m not well-versed in these things,” Emma offered.

“We’ve come to bring your bath,” Dani explained. “It’s out in the hall, if you’d like us to bring it in? Unless you wanted us to bathe you instead?”

“Pardon?”

“Dani! Silly goose,” Rahne chided her. “Don’t tease her.”

“You’re a bit dirty yourself,” Dani growled playfully, butting against the russet wolf, and she could have sworn Rahne’s muzzle twisted in the lupine equivalent of a grin. Dani took that as permission to clean her, and she began to lap at Rahne’s ears, snuffling and nuzzling her. Emma felt an odd flush at watching them cavort and tease each other like that, somehow wondering if she was intruding on something… intimate. Rahne submitted, growling and whuffling in low tones, bowing her head to let Dani administer a more thorough cleaning.

“Perhaps the tub would do for now,” Emma explained hastily. “I’ll get it!” She hurried out into the hall, flustered at the odd waves of heat welling in her belly. Emma lifted the tub with some difficulty, trying not to slosh any water over the brim. Thankfully it hadn’t been overfilled, and she noticed that it was pleasantly warm when she tested it. She pushed it across the floor, closer to the hearth.

“Ye’ve lovely hair, Emma,” Rahne told her as she rolled onto her back, playfully showing her belly. Emma chuckled and squatted down, rubbing it, and Dani approached her for affection, tail wagging.

“I want to play,” the dark she-wolf nagged. She butted Emma’s shoulder with her cold nose, which was a shock against her already chilled, bare skin. Emma was still only in her chemise, so when Dani closed in on her, brushing her bulk against Emma, she felt even more vulnerable and susceptible to the soft coarseness of her bristling fur. The animal radiated welcome warmth, and for a moment, she longed to roll with the large wolf across the floor, but much like she had with Santo, she hesitated, not wanting to take liberties. She scratched Dani’s hackles and gave her a firm pat.

“I’ll wash up. I’ll bathe myself, this time, if you don’t mind.”

“Spoilsport,” Dani shrugged. She didn’t sound disappointed, though, and Emma imagined that she wanted Rahne’s attentions for herself.

“Are you two from the same litter?” Emma inquired.

“Nay. ‘Course not, d’we look like kin?”

“Rahne’s my soulmate. We weren’t always like this, but we’ve always been close.”

“Your soulmate?”

“Aye.” Rahne rolled up and sat back on her haunches; Dani leaned over and licked the corner of her mouth. “It’s an intimate bond. Wolves mate for life.”

“But in our case, not for the sake of having cubs.”

“Oh, my.” Emma’s mind reeled with the possibilities. She’d never heard of such a thing, let alone witnessed it with her own eyes.

“Stranger things have happened,” Dani informed her. She butted up against Rahne again, and Rahne turned against her, thumping her tail across Dani’s nose.

“Cheeky,” Emma commented. “Go on, then. I’ll see you in the morning?”

“We’re being dismissed,” Rahne sighed.

“Along with our offer of a bath. Some people don’t appreciate dedicated service,” Dani huffed. She turned back and gave Emma a piercing stare. “So there’ll be nothing else?”

“No, thank you.”

“There’s soap in the cupboard,” Rahne told her as the she-wolves padded out. “There’s a key to lock up in the jewelry box. Fasten yourself down for the night and bundle up. It’s going to be a brittle, chilly night, lassie.”

“All right.” Emma could have assumed as much, but Rahne’s voice held a strong degree of certainty. Then she remembered that the Windrider held dominion of the weather, or, at any rate, of the storm. She stared bitterly out the window, watching the rain slap the panes and sluice down the glass. The wind continued to howl and Emma wondered if this was how the creature welcomed all of her guests, or just her.

She still wasn’t certain what her purpose was in the castle, how she could expect to be treated. Emma had few expectations of people in general, having had such a hand-to-mouth existence living on a family farm. Her father was fond of her and doted on her, but she wasn’t particularly spoiled. She was last in the pecking order of her siblings, and she could never depend on the kindness or charity of her older sisters. Emma wasn’t used to being truly loved except by two people: her father and her older brother, Christian.

She didn’t care much for her looks. She supposed she was attractive enough, if the occasional stares from townsfolk were anything to go by, but men flocked to her sister Adrienne. An equal but less obvious number of them bucked for her brother’s eye, something they only acknowledged behind closed doors, by candlelight over cups of tea, in murmured tones and snickers. She missed Chris already, and she wished him well. She’d no longer provide a buffer between him and their father.

The creature seemed to approve of Emma’s appearance, or at least she might after she was cleaned up and groomed. Emma snorted as she shucked the chemise and stepped into the luscious warmth of the bathwater. She released a sigh of relief; it would feel so good to go to bed clean. She made hearty use of the bar of soap that smelled like it had lavender petals in it, dressing her flesh in its foaming lather. She didn’t bother with her hair yet; its damp weight against her neck and chest would likely make her catch the ague, and she couldn’t afford to be sick.

Emma nearly dozed in the tub, lulled by the crackle of flames in the hearth and the patter of rain on the windows and roof, but suddenly, she felt herself being watched. Eyes were on her back, and the hairs on her nape stood up, followed by goose pimples breaking out over her arms. Her eyes grew wide in the dark and she stilled completely.

Windrider.

She couldn’t speak the name aloud, not wanting to earn the beast’s ire again. Emma felt her curiosity and fascination with her through her empathy, but her mind was still closed to her. If I don’t turn around, she will leave.

Emma was wrong.

She had left the door slightly ajar, and it slowly creaked open again. Nearly soundless footsteps crossed the room, barely burdening the marble. She heard the creature’s low breathing and held hers as she heard the footsteps halt, mere inches away from the tub. Emma closed her eyes and stiffened, fearful of what she would do.

“Don’t drip on my floor,” the voice growled, and something soft landed beside the tub. Emma’s heartbeat quickened, feeling rather than hearing the flap of the creature’s long robes as she approached, but her mind seemed to play tricks on her as she heard her steps retreat.

The door clicked shut. Emma was alone.

She opened her eyes cautiously, and her heart was still pounding. She walked in on me. In the altogether. Her blue eyes darted around the room, making sure that she had truly left. The bedroom was empty.

Emma rose from the tub, noticing that the water had cooled, and when she turned to dash for a blanket, she noticed a bundle of folded towels, nubby and rough, but welcome in her dripping state.

Santo was right; the Windrider was taking care of her needs very well, in her own fashion.

*

 

She awoke the next morning to find the tub filled with fresh water, this time steaming, and sunlight streamed in through the windows. When she rose, she hissed at the cold floor beneath her feet, wishing there were more rugs in the room. When she pulled back the heavy draperies and anchored them back with one of the silk ties, she saw that the sky was actually overcast and gray, with the sun only playing with the clouds. It was still an improvement over the night’s storm, and she welcomed the warmth.

She hastened her grooming, deciding on one of the few dresses she’d packed in her satchel that her father allowed her to take. She chose a serviceable black dress with white sleeves and a white ruffled collar. It was sedate and dignified, and Emma hoped it would make the right impression. It was also one that she wore to town when she went to sell eggs or cream at the market, better than what she wore to till the fields so she wouldn’t embarrass her father. She took a longer time in the tub this time and decided to wash her hair this time, and she sat by the fire, brushing it until it gleamed.

She was distracted by a low purring sound and the sensation of something brushing her ankles. Emma gasped as a marmalade tabby peeked out from the hem of the blanket she wrapped around her body. “H’lo, pusskins.”

“Good morning, milady.”

“Goodness, you talk, too. This is madness.” Emma sighed and tickled the cat under the chin. The cat took that as her cue to hop onto Emma’s lap, purring very loudly and wantonly, tail flicking back and forth, and her back arched up into Emma’s caress. “Shameless thing, aren’t you?” She had a fondness for cats, and this one was winning her over.

“The name’s Jenny. Go ahead, then, get that spot behind my right ear…”

“I thought this was when you asked me what you could do for me,” Emma pointed out, but the cat leaned up and swiped the corner of her mouth against Emma’s nose, making her giggle. 

“It’s time to come down for breakfast,” Jenny told her. “Or we can have it brought up. But my mistress demands an audience with you, no matter where you take your meal, milady.”

“It’s Emma. And downstairs is as good a place as any other, since I don’t stand on ceremony. Where’s the kitchen?”

“Silly girl,” Jenny purred, voice slightly husky with contentment as Emma caressed her fur. “You’ll take breakfast in the nook, like a civilized person.”

“I’m used to making my own breakfast.”

“You’ll have to get used to how we do things here, then.”

“What am I even expected to do here all day?”

“That’s up to Mistress.” Jenny nosed Emma’s neck, rubbing her cheek against hers. Her purrs and rumblings were comforting, and she realized the creature was taking advantage of Emma’s body heat while she was sitting close to the fire. The cat kneaded her paws against Emma’s neck, making her yelp when she hit a ticklish nerve by her armpit.

“Down with you, now.” Emma rose, knocking the cat from her perch.

“Well!”

“I need to get dressed.” Emma dropped the blanket onto the bed and reached for her chemise. Jenny admired the long, lean lines of her body and her willowy curves. Her skin was still rosy from her bath.

“Look at you,” the cat told her cheekily. “You’ve some nice meat on your bones.”

“I hope that’s a compliment.”

“Don’t hide your light under a bushel. What’s that? Don’t cover yourself up in such an ugly rag.”

“You’re giving me advice on my clothing?” Emma wondered incredulously. She stared down at the cat, who was flicking her tail back and forth. It was odd watching the feline, fanged mouth moving, forming human speech. She eased into the chemise and reached next for the dress. Jenny made a sound of disdain that sounded like a hiss.

“Dreadful. That won’t do at all.”

“It’s all I have!” Emma chided.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” The cat trotted over to the armoire and nudged the door with her cheek. “There are plenty of suitable things in here, all for you.”

“They don’t belong to me, surely.”

“Surely they do. Try one on. Something blue, to match your eyes.”

“It wouldn’t be fitting.”

“Mistress will be offended if you don’t,” Jenny warned, and Emma recoiled at the slightly frantic note in the cat’s words.

“I just feel awkward putting on something that isn’t mine. And taking what didn’t belong to him is what got my father in trouble, so you’ll excuse me if I’m not feeling enthusiastic about accepting another gift from your mistress.” Jenny sighed.

“Good point.”

“This dress will be fine.” The cat watched her dress and groom herself, admiring her long spill of blonde hair.

“Mine used to be that color,” the cat murmured.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing, milady.”

“It’s Emma; I told you that already.”

“Just come down to breakfast when you’re ready. I hope you’re hungry.” When Emma looked up, the cat disappeared, losing interest in her own ablutions of her front paw, let alone Emma’s.

“All right, then.” She sighed at the evasive nature of her hostess’ household staff, if that’s what the beasties indeed were. It was an unusual dynamic they all shared; Emma wondered why wild creatures would even want to inhabit a house, even if it was a castle. Then again, how often did she meet animals who talked?

Emma smoothed the skirts of her black dress and examined her handiwork with her plait. It hung nice and neat down her back, and her shoes were finally dry. Emma made up the bed and repacked her things into her satchel, neatening up the room out of habit. Dutifully she scooped out pitchers full of water from the tub, dumping them out the window until she could lift the entire tub and empty it of its contents. It puzzled her how any of the creatures at Windrider’s disposal could manage to lift the tub and bring it upstairs.

When she exited her suite, Manuel was there in the hall. His ears perked up when he saw her, and Emma could have sworn she saw a twinkle in the hare’s eye. “Buenos dias, hermosa.”

“Good morning, rascal.”

“Follow me to breakfast,” he plied, hopping toward the stairwell. Emma chuckled at the sight of his little white tail flashing up ahead of her.

“Such a charming escort.” She descended slowly, taking her time to enjoy her surroundings more in daylight. Few of the windows had their drapes open, but in what light they afforded, she could see the tapestries, throw rugs and pillars, busts and portraits, painted landscapes and handcrafted clocks. Emma longed to touch several of the objects she saw, but she resisted the temptation, not wanting to misstep.

One little white rose. That was Emma’s price. The truth still pierced her heart. She followed Manuel toward the breakfast nook, brooding despite the simple beauty of the furnishings. The table was already set with glass plates, jewel encrusted goblets and pitchers, a ceramic serving boat filled with cream, rose-colored linen napkins, and silverware that gleamed in the sunlight, completely spotless. A wonderful scent rose from one of several covered dishes in the table’s center, and her stomach growled anew.

“Tienes hambre, senorita?”

“If that means am I hungry, then yes, I’m famished,” Emma said fervently. “Where is she?”

“She asked that you arrive first. And that you serve yourself.”

“It’s not polite to start without her.”

“She insisted, senorita.” Manuel seemed to shrug and then ducked his head beneath his paw, feigning scratching his ear.

“Pardon my confusion, then.” Emma lifted the cover from the dish and inhaled the rich aroma of fried potatoes, helping herself to a generous scoop. “I thought the purpose of a breakfast invitation was to actually join the person for the meal itself.” Manuel said nothing; when Emma looked up from selecting a slice of fresh bread and spreading it with strawberry jam, he was gone again. She sighed, once again left alone with little to no warning. She almost missed Adrienne and Cordelia’s constant nagging and complaints, if only so that she didn’t feel so deserted.

*

She craved the feel of the wind in her feathers. Ororo had mixed feelings about her decision, and even more complex ones about her reluctant houseguest.

Partner, she corrected herself. Emma Frost would come around. She was her last hope.

She shivered at the memory of her psychic presence, brushing her consciousness with her furtive touch. Winston hadn’t said as much, but Ororo sensed that his youngest daughter was one who read minds, and a very powerful seer, at that. Ororo didn’t know whether to rejoice or weep.

On the one hand, she was unique, like her. On the other, she was anything but. 

The old thief had claimed that his daughter was lovely. The creature known only as the Windrider to the world at large scoffed at this, thinking he only meant to pacify her. He hadn’t lied, however, and her first sight of the reserved young woman had taken her breath away.

Yet she had never felt more ashamed at her own state as she had when she stared into those sky blue eyes, seeing her own horrible countenance reflected in their depths. Her fleeting hopes had been dashed at the fear and horror that twisted Emma’s features, at the way her heartbeat and pulse sped up so quickly that they skipped. Ororo’s enhanced physical senses could detect such things, and she could tell when someone was lying to her. It was both curse and gift.

If she allowed the youngest Frost to enter her mind, she would know the truth, and she would live out the remainder of her life cursed. She wasn’t the only one damned to this unnatural, lonely existence if she failed. The clouds shifted around her, roiling and darkening into thick, gray soup. She noticed this change and gradually calmed herself, restoring the day to its warm, overcast haze. Her eyes glowed white, sparking with electricity. The currents of energy surging through her body comforted her momentarily and the winds cleared her head.

Her body reacted strongly to her encounter with the girl. She was young and fresh, and her beauty was in full bloom. She also looked untouched, managing to seem aware of her own sensuality, but not brazen about it. Her mouth went dry at the sight of her sitting nude as a goddess in the shallow tub, skin still rosy from her bath. Her breasts bobbed atop the surface of the water, pink aureoles outlined in its silvery shimmer and gleaming in the firelight. Her blonde hair hung in disarray down her back, making her even more appealing, and Ororo longed to touch it, to see if it felt as silky as it looked.

The creature known as “Windrider” had seen many beautiful men and women come and go over the course of her life, but Emma Frost intrigued her. Ororo knew loneliness too well, even wore it like a cloak, and the sky wept with her after each of her failures to break the curse. At times, when her gloom became too much to bear, she sent word out to the village, posting word in the town’s inns and taverns that she would be willing to pay for “gentle companionship” upon certain conditions.

The practice carried with it great risk; when her guests arrived at the castle, it was always through the back entrance to the kitchen, and always to an empty room. There was always a note on the table directing them to follow the hall to the right, toward the foyer, and to come directly upstairs. A second note was left on that story explaining to go to the master suite to the right, with a portrait of a blue vase filled with white roses, painted in oils, hanging next to the heavy oak door.

She was always cloaked, and she always wore gloves, completely concealing her beastly appearance. Her suite was always prepared with sprigs of lavender and fresh-smelling sheets, with a roaring fire in the hearth. Ororo always left a plump sack of gold coins on the vanity before she nodded for her guest to go to the bed and disrobe.

The only three stipulations she made when she received a partner for the night were simple: Don’t ever take anything from the house. Don’t go into the garden. And that any transactions would take place in complete darkness, with the bed curtains drawn, and that you would close your eyes until the mistress of the house left the bedroom.

If the village knew about the presence of the terrible beast on the hill who spoke with a woman’s voice and controlled the skies, they would bring mayhem to her door and attempt to destroy her, so any transactions she made were carried out with great caution. She had no expectations of these individuals, mostly women, knowing that they were interested only in her purse, not her personality. But she treated them well, and to her credit, she was a well-versed, experienced and tender companion. She used her partners and used them well, leaving them exhausted and sated; they awoke to another note telling them to take their leave, waking at sunrise to the open curtains and an empty bed. It was a perfect arrangement, but it did nothing to break the spell.

The faerie’s stipulation was that she needed to inspire unconditional love in another, voluntary and uncoerced, genuine and unsolicited. Ororo was at a loss.

*

Emma was halfway through a colorful salad of exotic sliced fruits when she felt the breeze sweep in through the nook, rustling the curtains and heralding the arrival of the castle’s mistress. Emma felt her emotions, wary and fretful, but when she turned to acknowledge her, her face was calm, if she could call it that. Her features were just as unsettling as they looked the night before, but in the light of day, Emma could make out more details that she hadn’t noticed before.

“Well?” the Windrider beckoned. “What’s your verdict?”

“You’re fascinating,” Emma admitted.

“You’re staring.”

“So are you.”

The Windrider hadn’t transformed into a great beauty overnight, and Emma wasn’t about to change her opinion of her yet, but she couldn’t stop staring, as she’d pointed out. Emma rose from the table and approached her, and Ororo held her breath, difficult because she was winded after her flight. She stood transfixed as Emma Frost slowly examined her, walking around her in a slow, painstaking circle. 

She stood stock-still, shivering as she felt something brush faintly over her hair, and she heard her guest make a small sound of surprise.

“It’s soft,” she murmured. The Windrider was flustered.

“Rain water,” she explained. “I wash it outside.” Her hackles rose at the sensation of fingertips brushing her feathers, tracing their pattern of growth from long, coarse primary to wispy, soft pinfeathers. Ororo felt herself staring at Emma, rapt beneath her gaze, and she shook herself from her thrall. “You’ve eaten?” she asked gruffly.

“Have you?”

“I’m satisfied, for the moment.” Ororo turned her back on her and reached for a goblet. Emma bristled.

“It’s not often I get a breakfast invitation and then find myself partaking of it alone. Do you always run from your guests?”

“I don’t run from anything,” her hostess growled. The orange juice that she poured from the pitcher ceased its flow into the glass for a moment, and Emma felt static rising in the room, stirring the hairs on her nape.

Ororo wouldn’t admit that she was self-conscious about eating in front of civilized company. Her muzzle-like mandible and cleft lip, feline in its appearance, made eating neatly very difficult. She licked her lips of the last of her drink and set the goblet down with a thunk. 

“That’s hardly ladylike.”

“You call yourself a lady? You’re the daughter of a humble farmer,” the Windrider mocked, “and you were covered with mud when you arrived at my doorstep.”

“I was merely a bit the worse for wear,” Emma sniffed. “You hate my father, don’t you?”

“How fond would you be of a man who took your prized possessions.” The Windrider stood to her full height and paced a slow circle around Emma, looking her over. Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you wearing that?”

“It’s one of the only things I packed.”

“Ridiculous. I’ve provided you with a full wardrobe, you have much more appropriate things to choose from. Go change,” she snapped. Emma was affronted, and her fists balled themselves at her sides while spots of color rose into her cheeks.

“Honestly! There’s nothing wrong with my frock!”

“Frock. Hardly. That’s being too kind, it’s a shoddy rag.”

“It’s one of the nicest ones I’ve got. And in case you haven’t noticed, there are few people who I have to impress, here. Expecting company?” Emma’s eyes and voice hardened, and she knew her barb stung. The Windrider’s feathers rustled, and she emitted a low growl.

“No. But I expect your father’s bargain with me to be honored from his end.” The Windrider approached Emma again, and this time, she found it difficult to maintain her stance. The creature’s eyes flashed white, a sign of danger and that Emma had provoked her.

“I don’t know what you expect of me, or what my father promised I could offer!”

“Offer,” she snorted. “You think you’re making me an offer?” Emma felt foolish and small.

“Would you have me stay here unwillingly?”

“That’s up to you. Whether or not you’re willing,” Ororo challenged. “But you will stay.” She sighed. “And you will change that eyesore of a gown. I’m rather tired of it.”

“No. I won’t.”

“You will.” Murky, slate blue eyes narrowed, maintaining their color for the moment, but when Emma saw her reflection in them, she recognized her own false bravado and tight posture.

“I refuse.

“What did I tell you about refusing me?” Emma’s nostrils flared. They stared each other down for several tense moments.

Ororo sighed. She was going to make this hard.

Ororo’s hand whipped out in a blur of motion, snapping around Emma’s wrist. “You haven’t been given a proper tour of the grounds.” Ororo dragged her unceremoniously from the breakfast nook, and Emma stumbled over her own feet in her bid to keep up with her.

“This is unseemly! Let GO of me!” She struggled and tried to stand fast, but Ororo continued to drag her, determined to show her the error of her choice of words.

“You will come with me. There is much you haven’t seen, Emma Frost.” She led her to a bay window in the corridor, and Emma smelled ozone and cool mist as the Windrider flung it open with one clawed hand. “You would do well to hold on, and I hope you didn’t overeat.”

“What? What on earth do you mEEEEAAAANNNNN!” Emma’s breath was stolen from her lungs as the Windrider yanked her against her body, nearly smothering her in her voluminous blue robe, and her stomach lurched at the first leap into the air. Ororo threw them aloft, catching and gliding on a huge draft of wind. Her mighty wings opened and flexed in broad, elegant motion, weaving through the air in neat snaps as they gained altitude.

Emma thought she would be sick. The air gusting through her hair and beneath her skirts was exhilarating, frigid and intrusive. Her screams were snatched from lips, and she settled for hiccuping sobs that only her captor – her hostess – could hear. Ororo hardened herself against it, even though it was her first instinct to gather her close and reassure her.

The only thing she wanted to assure Emma about was who had all the control, all the power.

Ororo felt an odd buzzing in her skull, and she heard words whose origin puzzled her at first, when Emma was sobbing uncontrollably. 

Why are you doing this to me?

“You’re in my mind again,” she accused.

“Let me down.”

“Not until you’ve learned manners.” It was laughable to Emma, or it would have been, if she wasn’t so terrified. The Windrider accusing her of rudeness was the pot calling the kettle black.

I’m afraid. I’m so afraid. Please let me down.

“And let you scurry off? Will you run?”

Emma shook her head, whimpering into Ororo’s neck. It felt odd, the light fanning of her warm breath against her flesh, and Ororo suppressed a shiver. But higher and higher she flew, until they were within fingertip’s reach of the clouds.

“Look,” she ordered.

“No,” Emma sobbed miserably. Her heart was pounding, and Ororo could hear it, along with her rapid pulse. Emma’s long blonde tresses tickled Ororo’s lips, a sensation she was still too rattled to enjoy. She smelled like lavender soap.

“Look down,” she said again.

“I’ll faint.”

“I have you.” It was less a reassurance and more a statement of ownership, but Ororo’s voice was confident. “There’s the tower. My father’s grandfather built it, one brick at a time.”

“I don’t care,” Emma whispered.

“That’s my stable. Don’t go into it without my permission.” At the word “stable,” Emma drew back from Ororo briefly and dared to look down. Her heart leapt into her throat and she felt dizzy, fearing she would swoon, after all. She closed her eyes against the aerial view she had of the Windrider’s property and boundaries.

“Dear God!” Her face was green, and she made strange gulping noises. Ororo took pity on her and dropped down several meters. The plummeting feeling didn’t make things any easier for Emma, but the air didn’t feel as thin once they weren’t so high.

“There’s the pond. It’s high this time of year. You crossed the river, from the looks of you last night.” Emma’s fingers curled into Ororo’s cowl.

“I don’t care about the pond, I just want to get down!”

“You don’t like it up here?”

“NO, damn you! No!”

“It’s quiet. It’s peaceful. Not a care in the world,” Ororo mused. To her satisfaction, Emma drew back from her neck again, but she mourned the loss of her warmth against her skin. Emma took a chance and looked down again.

“Everything’s too small from here.”

“It makes me feel like I’m on top of the world,” the Windrider shrugged. “That’s what I like about climbing so high in the sky. It’s bracing, isn’t it?”

“It’s dreadful!” But Emma was intrigued. “What are those trees over there?”

“Apple trees. My orchard. It’s just inside my borders. Pity you’ve missed the blossoms already. Are you quite done digging your nails into my neck?” Emma loosened her grip, and Ororo decided to have a bit of fun with her, as if the launch hadn’t provided enough. She wrenched Emma’s hands free of her, and with a screech of denial ringing in her ears, Ororo dropped her. The winds tossed Emma about, flipping her around and playing lewd games with her long black skirts. The Windrider chuckled at Emma’s wide, terrified blue eyes descending away from her. “You wanted to fly free, little bird. Then, fly.”

Christian! Father! Pray for me, please, to fly home on the wings of angels! I never wanted to leave you! Emma’s prayers were fervent and desperate, borne of heart-stopping terror. She closed her eyes, blocking out the savage expression of satisfaction on the creature’s face as she loomed over her in the sky. She thought she was having delusions as she heard an odd flapping sound over the shrill whistle of the winds.

Strong hands snapped themselves around her arms, and her body righted itself so that she was no longer tumbling and pinwheeling through the air, but gliding on a warm draft. Emma’s teeth chattered from the change in temperature but she was grateful, until she realized who it was who stopped her ungainly plummet to the ground.

“I have you,” the Windrider informed her again, and she asserted her dominance with a rough nip of Emma’s neck. Emma cried out, but she was still too breathless to take umbrage or scold her. “There’s the west wing. It belonged to my parents.”

“Where are they now?”

“With the angels. I’ve been alone more years than I can remember.”

“You don’t know how old you are?” 

“Nay, nor even how long I’ve been alone.”

Emma felt a guilty pang. She was penniless, but she was blessed with a family, siblings who would be her anchor for the rest of her life when her father finally passed from the earth. Suddenly she couldn’t envy the Windrider her teeming fortunes and advantages.

Then I truly do pity you. Ororo recoiled, feeling as though she’d been slapped. She jerked Emma close and growled against the crest of her cheek.

“Never pity me!”

“Then live above the need for it!” Emma shot back.

“That concludes our tour, and our outing. You look like you could use some refreshing, my dear.” The Windrider swooped down, careening back toward the earth smoothly, wings flattening into an even glide that Emma almost enjoyed. But then she saw her shadow rushing up at her from the surface of the lake, and her scream was swallowed up as she was dropped neatly into the frigid water. Bubbles rushed up around her as she made impact, plunging into the darkness. Emma’s ears were ringing, and the sudden loss of the winds was disconcerting; she felt so off-balance that she almost forgot to swim. Belatedly she kicked her way toward the surface, never more grateful before for the first sweet gulp of air as she broke the surface.

She choked and coughed up a mouthful of the fetid water and began paddling unevenly toward shore. Her gasps were broken and furious, and her braid had come half-undone from the winds and her subsequent dip. It hung plastered down her back as she slogged and dragged her way from the water to the banks, and she cursed and sputtered over her predicament. “That… was unnecessary… and uncivilized,” she told no one in particular. She staggered onto dry ground and limped over to a large rock. She sat down and removed her slippers, dumping out water and pebbles before she began to wring out her hair. “A monster,” she mused. 

“And what of it?” the creature known as Windrider mocked.

“You’re cruel, and heartless! You deserve to be alone!” Emma cried out as she leapt to her feet, despite that she hadn’t gotten her bearings back yet.

“I’ll hear your thoughts on the subject once you change out of that horrid gown into one that’s actually dry,” was Emma’s response, much to her confused outrage. “Now, come along.” Emma’s feet squelched inside her damp slippers as she stomped and fumed the rest of the way back into the castle.


	7. Etiquette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma has a vision of her brother in danger, but she has more pressing matters at hand in the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope someone’s still reading this. I’ve been busy with little garbage sketches out on DeviantArt, a lot of real life crap at home, working full-time at a job that emotionally exhausts me, ... I’m trying to update stories that aren’t “impossible” to see finished *i.e., any other story but Fathoms, the story that was supposed to be easy, but isn’t…* I am still migrating old stories out here for the purpose of finishing them. *cough-yeah-RIGHT-cough*
> 
> Back to the REAL author’s notes: Things will heat up in this chapter, slightly. More angst. More work on my background characters and their motivations, and also, more Shaw. I love villains. When I started writing this, I envisioned Disney’s Beauty and the Beast, but also the live action movie version with Rebecca DeMornay, who made a gorgeous Belle. Not a great movie, but it stirred my muses.

The ale tasted uncharacteristically bitter on Winston’s tongue, but he finished the tankard listlessly, anyway. He stared into the bottom of it, swirling the last remnant of hops and mulling them over as though he could read his future in them.

He didn’t know what the future held without his daughter in his life, but it looked bleak, indeed. He scrubbed his palm over the gray stubble that roughened his jaw, not caring that he hadn’t shaved for three days. Sleep eluded him, too.

“Another?” The tavern keeper wasn’t ready to cut him off yet, since the old man was the most civil of the lot that haunted the Wild Duck at this late hour, and he was reasonable company, telling stories of exotic lands where he traded his goods. Everyone knew Winston Frost was once the most successful, illustrious merchant in the land; tales of his ruin were widespread and told with little pity, compounded by his middle daughter’s exploits as a fortune-seeker and woman of ill repute.

“Nay,” he murmured hoarsely.

“You getting home all right tonight, friend?”

“I’ll make it home. At least I will make it home,” he mused bitterly.

“What was that?”

“Just an old man, making little sense. Never you mind, kind man. I appreciate the time you’ve idled with me,” he added as he fished out two silver coins from his pocket, when he only owed one. The tavern keeper reached for his hand first, instead, clasping it in his beefy grip.

“Godspeed. You look like a man who needed that ale very badly, friend. You look like a man who’s lost his greatest treasure.”

“I have.”

“Another downed ship?”

“Nay. I’ve lost something far more precious to me than a ship.” Heartbreak lurked in his eyes. The tavern keeper nodded sagely, and he shook his hand more firmly.

“Godspeed, then.” Winston nodded and donned his wool cap, excusing himself as he made his way through the jostling crowd. The air outside was so clear in contrast to the Wild Duck’s smoky interior, its sweet freshness a shock to his lungs.

“Good evening, sir. Mr. Frost, isn’t it?” Winston flinched as he heard the familiar baritone, pausing as he climbed onto his wagon.

“Don’t treat me like a stranger, Shaw. I know you too well, and I don’t appreciate subterfuge. It doesn’t suit you, and it insults me.”

“I meant no insult,” the dark man tutted, holding up his hands as he stepped out from the shadows. “I only meant to inquire after your health.” Winston coughed slightly, annoyed with his body’s betrayal. He’d been feeling miserable with the damp weather, suffering the ague and myriad complaints from his joints.

“I’ve one last breath of life left in me, rest assured. How solicitous of you.”

“Excellent! Glad to hear it, sir.”

“Call me Winston. We’re both grown men.” His tone suggested otherwise, but Sebastian maintained his magnanimous smile.

“My father spoke of you kindly. He knew you when you were mere lads.”

“Aye. Jacob was a hellion. He’s hardly changed.” Winston’s tone was disparaging, and the ale freed him from wasting undue tact on Sebastian.

“Time mellows all.”

“Time makes you forgetful, if it’s being kind,” Winston corrected him gently. “You’re out late. You’ve a business to run, I understand.”

“You understand correctly.”

“Then you should head home to a warm bed. Early to bed, early to rise.” He gave Sebastian credit for knowing the rest of the adage as he took up his reins, giving them a hasty little snap. “Good evening, Shaw.” He didn’t tell him to give his regard to his father for him; that ship had already sailed long ago, and he had no regrets at divesting himself of his association with Jacob Shaw.

The nut didn’t fall from the tree, Winston mused. Jacob had raised a son who was a rake, and worse. Winston wasn’t blind to the way that Shaw behaved on the rare occasions when he came into town with his daughters to barter for a meager ration of supplies. Winston worried most about his youngest as she quickly matured from a gangly, towheaded moppet to a winsome, comely woman with her mother’s patrician features and soft curves. Thankfully, she was also blessed with his sharp wit, but Winston still worried about predators like Shaw.

Sebastian’s smile evaporated in Winston’s wake, and he watched his rickety old wagon clatter down the cobbled street in contempt. How dare he. He knew who he was, he knew his station in society, yet he mocked him. The shitty old bastard.

He straightened his jacket and turned on his heel, and Shaw returned to his favorite roost, the Black Trident. The gentleman’s club belonged to him, and while it boasted wealthier clientele than the Wild Duck, it was still a tavern, and its staff was sworn to strict silence. He nodded to Jase, his valet, who rose quickly from his stool and took his coat. The crowd parted for him, and he gave his greetings and excuses when he took his place at the card table. Shaw slaked his thirst with a glass of claret and proceeded to win three games in a row, high stakes. His smile was reptilian as the man to his left fumbled and squirmed, toying with his shirt collar.

Sebastian couldn’t wait to spell out the terms if he couldn’t honor his debt. In Shaw’s house, the house always won.

*

Jacob Shaw’s son wasn’t the only one watching Winston depart. Another pair of bloodshot blue eyes followed his departure from the corner outside, and he was heedless of the cold night as he waited for the sound of hoofbeats to fade.

Christian released his pent-up breath and sagged back against the wall of the Wild Duck. Finally, his father had left! He was dismayed to find his wagon out front when he came in to town, when Winston made his excuses to his family earlier that night that he was only going to market. Clearly his father had the same agenda he did, Christian thought bitterly.

Perhaps he even had similar reasons. Christian hadn’t slept since Emma left them, and it was killing him. He’d lost his lifeline, and the only one who could keep the nightmares at bay.

His heart pounded at the sight of Shaw, but as far as Christian knew, he hadn’t spotted him, and he didn’t see Pierce or Shaw’s horrid valet, Jase about. He grew sick at the thought that Shaw would tell his father of his indiscretions, or worse, shame him in some way about his attack, slandering him for his weakness. Christian knew that the wealthy – and the unscrupulous – could twist the truth to their liking, and Sebastian Shaw was no exception.

On this damp, cruel night, Christian sought out his second source of comfort, two of the only other people he truly called his friends, even though they were both much more than that. But on this night, he needed solace and a mere shoulder, a pair of ears and the assurance that things would get better.

“Please be here,” he murmured in frustration. Christian pulled his jacket more tightly around him against the draft, and he hurried around to the back of the Wild Duck. He lingered in the back alley, feeling the dark memories swamp him. “Psst!” he hissed to a young man in a dirty white apron as he came out on the stoop. The boy dumped the contents of a serving dish out onto the ground, drawing a litter of cats to its odors.

“There y’go, lil’ mites,” he told them. “Greedy little buggers.”

“Psst!”

“What’s that? Oh. What’re you doing back here, Chris?” The boy scratched his nose and eyed him warily. “Look a sight, don’t you?”

“Where’s Jean-Paul? Or Rory?”

“Working. Where you should be, after a fashion…”

“Fuck off. Get me Jean-Paul.”

“That’s no way to talk,” the boy argued, but he shrugged and went back inside before Christian could nag him any further. Christian ducked out of sight briefly as he heard voices in the alley, not wanting to be seen. He waited several seconds, feeling an ugly tingle run down his spine. What if Jean-Paul wasn’t able to meet him?

His fears were unfounded as he heard familiar footsteps, two sets, hurrying out from the back of the kitchen, along with two bickering voices that he loved. Christian groaned with relief and only stepped back out of the shadows when he saw Jean-Paul hurry outside, stamping his feet against the cold and blowing on his cupped hands.

“It’s a miserable night out here,” he muttered. “Chris?” he called out. Behind him, his twin sister sniped and fussed.

“What’s he doing out here so late?” she complained. “Christian!” she hissed out. “Come out here!”

“I’m here,” he confirmed, and he came out hesitantly, expectant but wary. He knew they wouldn’t like what they saw.

Jean-Paul confirmed this. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Chris? You didn’t tell us you were coming out tonight! It’s not fit for a dog out here…Christian?” Jean-Paul’s arched brows scowled as he drew closer, taking in his sorry state.

“Good Lord, Chris, you look awful,” Aurora told him as they hurried down the stoop. 

“Rory, get our coats,” Jean-Paul said, tone clipped. “We’re going home.”

“You’re working,” Christian reminded him.

“Not now.”

“I’ll only be a minute,” Aurora agreed. She squeezed Christian’s hand and kissed his cool cheek. “Ducky, you do look awful.”

“Thanks.”

“I never agree with her on much, but take her word for it, this time.” Christian’s bruises had faded slightly since his attack, but his cheeks were gaunt and unshaven, and he hadn’t taken any care with his thick, dark hair; it looked disheveled where it peeked out from under his cap. Sunken blue eyes stared back at Jean-Paul, bloodshot and ringed with dark smudges.

“I don’t know why I bother with either of you,” Christian muttered.

“You know why.” Jean-Paul’s tone was thick with emotion, but he held himself in check at the sound of more voices in the alley. “We’re going home.” Aurora hurried out wearing her coat and muffler wrapped around her ears and tied under her chin and held out Jean-Paul’s.

“You’ll lose a night’s wages.”

“They hardly pay us, anyway. Get that stick out of your bum, Chris, and just come on.” Aurora and Jean-Paul huddled against him, lending them his warmth as they practically ran down the street. They turned the corner and traveled roughly twelve blocks, then rounded the corner of the millinery store. The three of them ascended the stairs of a townhouse that had seen better days, a meager but cozy home the twins shared since their parents passed away. They didn’t live on much, and they only had each other, but Jean-Paul and Aurora Beaubier managed just fine.

“Set the fire, Jean. I’ll put on the kettle,” Aurora told him as they keyed their way inside. They stamped their feet on the rag rug at the door to free them of mud, and Christian stared around at his surroundings as though they were foreign. “Come on in. Don’t be shy.”

“I’ve missed you,” he told her hoarsely when she tried to pull him forward, and he tugged her hands from his coat where she was trying to work open his buttons. Chris pulled her into his arms instead, needing the contact and human warmth more than anything else.

“What happened to you?” she murmured into his neck.

“The worst thing in the world. I’m in hell,” he choked, and she realized he was crying. “I’m in a nightmare.” Jean-Paul paused in the act of setting a log in the grate when he saw their guest break down, and he felt a knot in his chest.

“Darling, what happened?”

“They’ve ruined me,” Christian wept into her hair. Her hands stroked his back soothingly. “And Emma’s gone.”

“Emma?” Jean-Paul lit the fire with a long match and joined them, helping Chris out of his coat and carefully hanging it with his cap on a hook and leading him to their dilapidated chaise. He sat numbly down while he was divested of shoes and wet socks, and in a few short minutes, he was tucked under a blanket, cup of tea warming his hands, and with his companions huddled around him, waiting for him to give his account.

“Tell us what happened, love,” Jean-Paul encouraged.

“I…I was f-forced…” Christian closed his eyes, and tears leaked out from beneath his lids. He bowed his face into his hand, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and Jean-Paul felt him tremble.

“What did they make you do?” Aurora asked quietly as she stroked his hair.

“What…they wouldn’t even do to a lowly cur,” Christian grated out. “They treated me like an animal.”

“Who?” Jean-Paul’s voice was hard.

“I can’t tell you.”

“No. You have to tell me.” Jean-Paul’s temper pushed color into his cheeks and made his blue eyes spark. He took Chris’s hand and squeezed it. “Don’t keep this from me. I will know who did this to you.”

“They attacked you?” Aurora pressed.

“They raped him,” Jean-Paul corrected her. Rage was consuming him, and he was having a hard time keeping his bearings, when his lover needed his support.

“I can’t get their faces out of my mind. Emma made it better, for a night, but she’s gone.”

“What are you talking about, Chris? Emma’s gone where?”

“She’s… my father, he – the bastard sold her!” Chris’ voice exploded from his chest. “Just like she was a thing! Like a jewel, or a spice, or a length of cloth! Like she was a whore! He sold EMMA!”

“Good Lord,” Aurora breathed. “Why? Why… how on earth could he do that? He adores Emma.”

“Because he was desperate. He made a bargain with the devil. He owed a debt.”

“So he gambled her away?”

“No.” But Chris was too overwhelmed to go into further detail. “But Emma drove away the nightmare. She buffered it. But now that she’s gone, I can see them. I can feel their hands…” Jean-Paul and Aurora both shuddered.

“Then stay with us tonight.”

“I’m not good for it.”

“No one’s asking you to be. Just stay.”

Chris wept. Two pairs of arms wrapped him in their embrace, sheltering him from tangible demons, even though they couldn’t slay the ones in his mind.

*

Emma rose from her second bath of the day – her third, after a fashion – and once again perused the armoire, sighing. So her own clothes weren’t good enough for her hostess. So be it.

“The blue one would be nice.”

“You think?”

“Try it on,” Jenny purred. She circled Emma as she lifted the dress from the press, rubbing against her legs and flicking her tail against the lush, full skirt. “It’d be lovely on you.”

“It’s awfully dressy for a night in.”

“It’s a castle. What else did you expect?”

“Good point.” Emma wanted to point out that she still didn’t know how she found herself there. She considered the dress, fingering the shining silk. The dress had a demure neckline and snug bodice with fluttering, filmy sleeves. It was a pale blue that, indeed, did bring out her eyes and her creamy skin. She hated bowing to the creature’s expectations, especially after such dire treatment.

She had pitifully few belongings of her own. According to the Wind-Rider, everything in this room belonged to her if she obeyed. It was the obedience that Emma was having difficulty with…

What did she expect of her, really? For all intents and purposes, while Emma wouldn’t call her hostess a “lady,” she was certainly female. It wasn’t like she wanted someone to sit next to at the whist tables or to go to luncheons with. Did she expect Emma to be her maidservant? Was she supposed to brush her hair every morning or bring her tea? Emma huffed. That didn’t sound very promising, nor any more stimulating than the situation she left behind. Emma often wondered what life held for her once she was out from her father’s roof and her sisters’ thumb, but at times, she came up empty.

“I don’t want to be her puppet.” Jenny made a sound between a mew and a laugh.

“You! Sweet, I can’t imagine you as anyone’s puppet. You’ve a wild streak in you. I can’t see anyone holding you down.”

“I knew you were a smart kitty,” Emma returned. She sighed over the dress and crossed the room, holding it up against herself again in the mirror. “It is lovely.”

“Looks like it’s just your size.”

“Maybe she won’t dunk me in the lake or drop me out of the window this time,” Emma said bitterly as she shed her robe. Her chamber was warm again, thanks to a fire that had conveniently been lit in the grate during her absence. Her suite door creaked open just she finished struggling into the complex, voluminous garment. Emma hissed in annoyance until she spied the two she-wolves letting themselves in and lying down in front of the fireplace.

“Turn around? Oh, that’s nice on you,” Rahne informed her wistfully. “Mistress’ll fancy that, I imagine.”

“She sure will,” Danielle agreed, shaking herself as she stretched and yawned. “That was some dip you took.”

“I’m glad you found it so entertaining,” Emma sniped. “Hmmph…”

“At least you didn’t piss yourself,” Danielle congratulated her. “Mistress has little patience for people who don’t see things her way, or for fools in general.”

“So which am I?” Emma asked, placing her hands on her hips.

“Surely not a fool, I hope.”

“You’re no help.” Emma sighed at her reflection. Her hair was a mess again. She smoothed her hands over the bodice, enjoying the feel of the fabric against her skin and the way it warmed to her touch. She made a sound of pleasure despite herself. “All right. The blue, then.”

“Knew you’d come around,” Jenny cheered. She kneaded Emma’s foot with her velvety front paws. “Your hair, then. Let’s do something about that.”

“Let’s?” Emma felt wary. “I’m the one who has to do something about it.”

“Don’t be silly. Sit tight, now.” Jenny swiveled her feline head toward the door and cried out, “Marie-Ange! Come in here, and shake your tail about it! Milady needs to get ready for Mistress!”

“Goodness,” Emma muttered, amused. The words sounded so bizarre, even more so coming from a cat’s mouth.

“Don’t get yourself in a dither, I’m coming along.” A voice accented with a hint of French reached Emma’s ears, followed by low chittering, and the next creature who entered the chamber astonished her. A beautiful, sleek little monkey hurried into the room on her knuckles, spry and lithe. Emma found her adorable. “Je suis Marie-Ange, mamselle. Comment-allez vous?”

“A little the worse for wear, sweetheart,” Emma replied, bending to better greet the beastie. “And what are you here to do?”

“Something with that lovely hair of yours, which looks like it’s seen better days,” Marie chirped.

“How do you propose to do that?”

“I’ve the only one in the castle who can hold the brush,” she informed her matter-of-factly. She indicated her tiny hands, which indeed had opposable thumbs. Emma giggled. “Pull up a chair, mamselle. Let me see what I have to work with.” Emma complied, and the monkey leapt up nimbly, landing on the vanity and she began to search the drawer for the brush. She withdrew it and beckoned to the wolves. “Bring me that stool,” she said imperiously.

“Bossy little thing,” Emma mused.

“You’ll still be pleased. Marie does fine work,” Dani mentioned. “She always did on mine, before.”

“Before what?”

“Don’t speak out of turn,” Rahne warned her on a low growl. The darker wolf made a sound like a sigh and laid her head back down on her forelegs, staring up at Emma with big, sorrowful eyes.

“You can’t tell me?”

“I spoke out of turn,” Danielle offered.

Emma was confused. She remembered Jenny saying something equally odd when she first arrived about her hair… or her fur?

_Mine used to be that color._

She meant her _hair_. It dawned on Emma that things weren’t what they seemed in this strange, bewitched castle, least of all her hostess.

She was drawn back from her musings by Marie’s melodic chittering. The monkey was expertly parting her hair into neat sections, running the brush through the waves to smooth out the tangles. Emma sighed in contentment; the bristles felt good and it relaxed her to be pampered for a change. Emma’s sisters almost never helped her with her grooming while she was growing up, and she missed her mother’s gentle hands. She’d waited on Adrienne and Cordelia hand and foot, always seeing to their needs, drawing their baths, mending and altering their gowns, buffing their nails. She could let herself enjoy this, couldn’t she, just once?

“Do you favor braids or curls, milady?”

“Braids, for now.” Curls would take too long, and Emma knew that it wouldn't suit to keep the creature waiting.

“Fine choice.” Marie began to hum, shocking Emma even more, since it was a tune that she recognized.

“You’ve a lovely voice.”

“Merci, mamselle!” The monkey’s facial muscles were capable of a smile, and the expression was comical. Emma couldn’t help chuckling slightly. Marie’s nimble little fingers tugged at her hair, deftly weaving it into snug, neat plaits. Emma watched her handiwork, amazed and impressed.

“That’s very good.”

“Merci.”

“Where did you learn how to do this?”

“From my mother, and my sisters, a long time ago. They had their own special, elegant style.” Marie sighed. “I forget what it was like to wear fine silks or dainty shoes.” Emma’s blue eyes widened briefly, but she schooled her expression into calm lines so that Marie could finish her work uninterrupted. The plaits were carefully draped and pinned back from Emma’s face and coiled at her nape. Several long tendrils of hair were left free, curling of their own volition from the dampness. The effect was feminine, vulnerable and lovely, well-suited to the rich gown.

“That will do,” Emma told Marie, nodding as she ran her fingertips over one of the shining plaits. “Thank you.”

“De rien, milady.” Emma shoved a small dish of sweets on the vanity closer to Marie, who daintily selected a sugared almond and chittered as she ate it. Emma stroked her little arm, enjoying her soft fur.

“Share the love over here. I’ve an itchy spot behind my neck,” Danielle grumbled from her place on the rug.

“You do?” Emma rose from her seat and bent to the task, glad for another opportunity to touch that fur, too, which felt thick and lush combing through her fingers as she gave her a thorough scratch. Rahne butted against her.

“Me next.”

“Of course,” she agreed. But she couldn’t tarry too long. Rahne whined in contentment as Emma scratched around her chops and ears. It was so tempting to remain in the cozy chamber, which was now very warm, but she had an appointment to keep.

“Jewels?” Marie inquired hopefully.

“Not this time.” Emma felt foolish enough wearing such a fancy dress during the daytime as it was.

“A shame.”

“It’s quite all right. I’ll manage. Thank you again.” Emma swept from the room, but Jenny stopped her.

“Do you remember how to get to the library?”

“Yes.” Emma hoped she did, at any rate. It was dark before when she first arrived at the castle, and the house looked different in the light of day.

“Go left,” Jenny added, when Emma turned right. She doubled back, flushing slightly.

“Thank you,” she called over her shoulder.

“This morning didn’t go swimmingly, did it?”

“If by swimmingly, you mean that Mistress shouldn’t have dunked her like that, then no, dear.” Danielle nuzzled her soulmate and sighed. “That was a mess.”

“It won’t do at all if Mamselle doesn’t soften her heart,” Marie added grimly.

“We’re doomed, then.” Dani licked Rahne’s muzzle to comfort her, but she had no words of wisdom.

*

“Your tea, Mistress.”

“Set it down.”

“I’ve set the cart in the library, Mistress.”

“That will do.”

“I know it’s not my place,” Manuel began uneasily. The Wind-Rider sighed raggedly.

“But you’ll tell me, anyway.”

“What you did seemed a bit…unfair.”

“She can swim.”

“You didn’t know that.” His tone was accusing.

“I won’t be scolded by my staff.”

“Apologies, senorita.” Manuel’s nose twitched. “I’m just saying that it might do you some good to take a, how can I put this… more delicate approach?”

“Delicate?”

“Less…threatening.”

“Ah.” The Wind-Rider’s chuckle was deep and throaty. She blew on the contents of her tea, mulling it. “You fancy her, don’t you?”

“She’s quite fetching.”

“You’ve an eye for the ladies.”

“As do you,” he pointed out cheekily.

“Watch your step.”

“I meant no disrespect.”

“You never do,” she muttered, rolling her opaque eyes.

“I just think you might do well to take a different approach.”

“Like paying her? More blindfolds?”

“Money doesn’t buy love.”

“I won’t tolerate your insolence.”

“Nor will you hear my wisdom.”

“You only miss what you’ve lost. You don’t know what it’s like to be me.” Ororo’s voice grew cold.

“Si. I do miss what I once had. I find the ladies don’t take my attempts to woo them and sweep them off their feet very seriously, when I only reach up to their kneecaps.” Manuel’s ears flopped. “But you underestimate me, senorita, when you say that I don’t know how you feel.” He hopped closer, nosing the edge of her robe. “Talk to her, gently. Woo her.”

“You act like I’m calming a skittish horse.”

“It’s not much different,” Manuel agreed cheerfully, earning himself a snort. “Give her a chance. Get to know her! Ask her what’s on her mind.”

“She’s too quick to pry into mine for my taste.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“Nothing,” she snapped, but her fingers tightened on the handle of the delicate china cup.

“She won’t learn to love you if remain so hard, so distant,” he coaxed. “The lovely senorita seems bright. Perhaps she likes books. Or chess? At the very least, we know she’s fond of animals.” The Wind-Rider made a sound of disgust.

“That hardly helps.”

“True,” he shrugged. “But it may help her to like you.”

“I’m tired,” Ororo muttered.

“You’ve had a long morning.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Then tell me.” His ears twitched. Ororo sat down at her desk, mulling a chess set that had several moves executed already, one of her favorite strategies. Manuel nimbly insinuated himself into her personal space, hopping up into her lap. Automatically she stroked his fur, soothed by how soft it felt.

“What if this doesn’t work? I can’t… I couldn’t bear it. I’m not ready to live out the remainder of my life like this, Manuel.”

“’Remainder’ is a generous term, senorita.” He sounded grave. “You once had years to break this curse. Now we’re left with weeks.”

“I don’t want to want her. I don’t want to need anything from her. I can’t live with more disappointment.”

“That’s hardened your heart. You have to let her in.”

“What if she can’t love me?” He stared up at her and nosed her hand.

“Then we’re all lost, senorita.”

*

Emma took yet another wrong turn and ended up in a broom closet, making her curse under her breath. Drat this blasted castle! It was too large, too cavernous, and too many corridors looked the same. It didn’t help that she didn’t have any of her little new-found friends as guides at the moment.

Her footsteps were light over the marble floors, and she took her time now, deciding she couldn’t well hurry if she was lost, could she? She perused the paintings, taking the chance to enjoy some of them. They ran the gamut, from landscapes to still-lifes, portraits to fantastic scenes of mythical creatures. Some of them told a story, something she preferred when she enjoyed art.

One of them gave her pause when she drew back a curtain to let in a little more sunlight, allowing her to see it better. She gasped at the stark scene it depicted, rendered in heavy oils in shades of indigo, black and crimson.

It was a woman, being tortured by demons. They grinned at her with yellowing, jagged fangs. Some of them were covered in fur, some in scales. They prodded her with pins and mean-looking knives, and she was bound to a large rock with dull pewter manacles. What moved Emma was the expression of despair in her eyes. She stood back from it, grimacing, before she dropped the curtain. 

“Horrible,” she muttered. “Absolutely dreadful. Why would she keep that?”

Emma continued her trek, wondering why no one had come to her rescue yet. She considered retracing her steps to her room, but when she looked back, her memory failed her.

Then she had an epiphany. She wasn’t allowed to read the creature’s thoughts, at great risk to her personal safety. But…that didn’t mean she could read the thoughts of her servants, did it? Emma searched the castle furtively, scanning it for psychic “footprints,” but it was difficult. She wasn’t sure if it would work with animals, since she had never tried before.

_Bet she’s lost._

_She’s too proud to admit it, that one._

Aha! Emma sighed. They were right. She _was_ too proud. That sounded like Dani and Rahne. In the worst case scenario, they were wolves. They could track down her scent if she was gone too long. Who else was in the house? She scanned again for familiar traces and was rewarded once more.

_I fancy a swim in the creek. Fish are spawning soon._

_You and your fish, Santo, you big lummox._

So she’d found the bear. His thoughts sounded far away, and Emma guessed he was outside. She couldn’t be too far from the library, could she? Emma looked forward to perusing the selection of books, and her stomach reminded her that it was almost time for tea.

_We’re all doomed if you don’t stop being so stubborn._

Emma scowled. That sounded like Manuel. She wondered why his emotions were suffused with so much dread, out of character for the cheeky rabbit. But he sounded closer, and she decided to hone in him, reaching out with her mind for him.

_Manuel? I’m lost._

_Senorita? He sounded surprised, and Emma chuckled._

_Too right. It’s me. I’m lost._

_Stay put. Where are you?_

_In a hall, standing in front of the most ghastly painting I’ve ever seen._

_Demons? A woman looking scared out of her wits?_

_That’s the one. Emma wrinkled her nose._

_I will come for you. Mistress is growing slightly… impatient._

_I have no doubt._ Emma rolled her eyes. This was a fine pickle, wasn’t it? She didn’t want the creature to wonder if she had sufficient wits about her to find her way through her house.

_Wait for me._

_All right._ Emma turned away from the painting, looking for something else to distract her, and she found it in the form of a long window farther down the corridor, sunlight streaming inside. She was drawn to it, and Emma noticed a glass door. She wondered where it led, and her feet moved her toward it before she could ponder it any further.

“Where are you going?” Ororo demanded when the bunny hopped down from her lap and scurried off.

“To bring your company to tea. I will be back before you can miss me,” he promised.

“Take your time, wretched beastie,” Ororo muttered, shaking her head. She was restless for Emma to arrive, even though she was at a loss as to what to do next. Woo her. What a ridiculous proposition.

Manuel scampered down corridor after corridor, attempting to follow the voice in his head. “You’ve taken several wrong turns, senorita,” he murmured to himself.

__What’s this?_ _

"What’s what? You heard me?”

_Loud and clear._

“I’m on the opposite wing from you!”

__You might as well be in the same room, dearie. I can read minds._ _

“You can see…everything in my mind?” A chill ran through him at the thought. “Don’t linger too long in there, senorita. You might…er, see something… untoward.”

_Have no fear. I won’t pry. Where does this door lead?_

“What door?”

__The glass one. Oh… oh, my. It’s glorious._ _

Manuel’s stomach twisted. “Senorita, don’t! Please leave that door alone, I beg of you! You don’t want to open that! Go back! Wait for me, I will take you to the library!”

 _I just want to see it for a second,_ Emma insisted. He shared her emotions for a moment, feeling her curiosity and wonder tinged with delight. She was in the garden.

This didn’t bode well at all.

“SENORITA! NO!”

_*_

She didn’t heed him. The beauty of it all stole her breath.

Roses. Angels. Goddesses. Sparkling water bubbling from stone fountains. Exotic flowers of every variety climbing over every surface, creeping over trellises and dripping nectar. It was impossible. It was incredible.

The weather was still cold, and the flowers were all out of season, not due to bloom until late spring, or even early summer, but here they ignored nature’s cycle and flourished. The grass felt springy beneath Emma’s feet as she let herself outside, and she laughed in wonder, quickening her steps as she hurried to see it all. It was like stumbling into Eden. The air smelled like jasmine, honeysuckle and peaches. She heard bees going about their labors with a steady hum and the breeze stroking her cheeks was warm, lifting her skirts.

The ring of rosebushes enthralled her with their sheer riot of color. Each one was more beautiful than the last. They were sturdy, armed with nasty thorns, but their petals were abundant and rich. The one that captivated her was the one in the center, teeming with pristine, snowy white blooms. Emma was drawn to them, breathing in their perfume and tempted to touch them.

“Senorita! Emma! Please! Go back!” Manuel was just crossing the threshold into the garden when he found her.

“It’s so beautiful,” Emma informed him as she reached for the rosebush, already snapping off the thorns from a delicate stem.

“DON’T!”

“What’s wrong? I just want one little rose. There’s plenty here.”

“They aren’t meant for picking! You can’t!” He scuttled under her skirt, scratching at her shins with his tiny claws.

“OW!”

“I beg of you, turn back, now! Leave the roses alone, or you won’t like what happens next!”

“They’re flowers,” Emma insisted. She danced about, trying to rid herself of the interloper under her dress. “Naughty bunny! Out! NOW!”

“It’s a lovely view from here, senorita,” Manuel told her, momentarily distracted by her long, creamy legs and tender nether regions barely obscured by her cotton drawers.

“OUT!”

“No! YOU get out! Get back inside, before Mistress catches you handling her prized possession!”

“The roses?”

“Si! They are sacred, not meant to be touched by human hands!”

“Then who tends them?”

“That doesn’t matter! Go, go, GO!”

“But-“

“You wanted me to show you to the library, so we’ll go there now,” Manuel snapped. Emma felt scolded and chastened. Her cheeks flushed, and she looked back longingly at the roses, but he led her to the door, nipping at her hem.

“Stop that!”

“I know my way beneath a lovely lady’s skirts, no?”

“NO!”

_*_

Emma was flustered by the time she reached the library, and she was annoyed to find it empty. She sighed, but she noticed the tea service sitting near the fire. She poured herself a cup of the fragrant brew and browsed the nearest shelf. The books were in wonderful condition, covers free of dust and spines uncreased. She selected one bound in fine black leather, a tome of poetry, and she sat by the fire, removing her slippers so she could curl her feet beneath her to better enjoy it.

She was so rapt in it that she didn’t hear the Wind-Rider enter the library, the swish of her robes whisper-soft. She prowled just inside the door, watching her. Ororo smelled hair pomade and lavender water and knew she’d availed herself of the tub. She also noticed Marie’s careful work with her hair and smirked. At least she’d outfitted herself properly.

Emma felt the hairs on her neck stand on end, feeling as though someone was watching her. She let the book fall shut in her lap and slowly craned her face to peer over her shoulder. The Wind-Rider lingered in the shadows of the study, transfixing her with her brooding stare.

“You obeyed me.”

“It seemed wise.” Emma’s voice was bitter. Ororo winced inwardly and cleared her throat. She entered almost soundlessly, giving her wings a little shake as she felt the warmth radiating from the hearth. She circled the chaise, eyeing her, taking in her careful grooming, Emma assumed.

“Do you always sit like that?”

“Pardon?”

“It’s rather unladylike,” she chided her, tsking.

“Well. My apologies. I just assumed…”

“Assumed what?”

“That you, er… didn’t stand much on ceremony.”

“Because I’m out here all alone, you mean?” Ororo’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Or because I look the way I do? You assume that you can behave however you please?”

“You’ve made it clear that I can only behave however you please,” Emma countered. She swung her feet down to the floor, sitting up properly and stepping back into her slippers.

Ororo wouldn’t tell her that she looked fetching curled up on the chaise like that, exposing her ankles and long, dainty pink toes. She also liked her look of rapture as she read the book, and the way the gown fell in soft folds around her body. She’d hoped she would choose the blue.

“Stand.” Emma flushed at the command, annoyed, but she complied, rising smoothly to her full height. She stared at the floor while she was examined like a cow at the market, wondering if she would pry her mouth open to check her teeth. She heard the low rustle of her robes as she circled her slowly, pausing to touch the silk. Emma shivered at the sensation of warm breath misting over her shoulder and the inadvertent scrape of something hard against her ear, realizing it was her hostess’ long, spiraling horn. She felt the air stirring around her hair, sensing movement and almost imperceptible touch. Fingertips were tracing the coil of her plait over her nape.

“You’ve bathed.” The voice was raspy, making a statement, not asking a question.

"Clearly,” Emma whispered.

She stood still, finding it difficult not to tremble while the beast drank in her essence, sampling it through scent, sight and fleeting touch. Emma’s goods were on display in the fine gown instead of the dowdy, concealing work dress, and she felt self-conscious. Those fingers trailed down from her hair, following the line of her spine, and her heartbeat quickened. “Getting a bit familiar, aren’t you?”

What the Wind-Rider couldn’t, or wouldn’t convey was that she couldn’t resist the urge. She was drawn to the rebellion in her voice and wanted on some level to drive away that little shiver of fear, but doing so would give her the upper hand. She was the mistress of the house, so she made the rules, but she smelled her womanly pheromones and felt the heat radiated by her skin, heard her pulse rush in her throat…

Her tongue flicked out to taste it and Emma gasped. 


	8. Exposed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just like the title says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a big, rambling mess. Woo-hoo! *crickets*

Emma jerked back from the she-creature who towered over her, her throat still damp from the unexpected taste she took of her flesh. “Why did you just do that?” she demanded in a breathy squeak that she didn’t recognize as her own voice. Her cheeks flared crimson and she tingled all over.

“I beg your pardon.”

“You should.”

“No. I mean, I’m uncertain why I should explain myself? You’re mine,” the Wind-Rider reminded her casually. “I can do with you whatever I wish.”

“And what do you call what you just did?” Emma demanded, appalled and impatient.

“Just making sure you bathed. That was a stipulation of our next encounter that I thought we agreed upon at the lake.” Emma fumed.

“Do I pass muster?”

“You’ll do.” Ororo ignored the irritation in her guest’s voice and suppressed a smile. Emma straightened up haughtily, and to her surprise, curtsied.

“How may I serve you, madame?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Ororo flicked her hand toward the chaise. “Sit. Like a proper lady, this time.”

“You sound like Cordelia, now,” Emma grumbled under her breath.

“Who?” The Wind-Rider raised what passed for brows and cocked her head.

“Cordy. My eldest sister. She’s a nag, truly, but not the fly in the ointment the way that Adrienne is. My middle sister, that is.”

“Why would I remind you of either of them?”

“Because she lectures me to death about how to comport myself.”

“You had no mother to teach you such things?”

“Nay. She’s gone from this world.”

“Ah.” The Wind-Rider nodded, then averted her eyes for a moment. “I’m… sorry.”

“So am I,” Emma admitted bitterly. “My life might have been –“

“It doesn’t matter what your life ‘might have been.’ There’s no bigger waste of your time, darling, then looking back on your life and taking stock of what you don’t have.” The Wind-Rider rustled her wings, and the gesture spoke to Emma of annoyance. She felt patronized, and she wished once again that she had remained in her chamber, surrounded by the warmth of the two lupines curled up in front of the hearth.

“You’re not lacking much,” Emma snapped.

“Lacking? Did I just hear you correctly? You think I’m… _lacking_?” Emma truly felt her annoyance this time, tempered with confusion, and she realized her empathy was leaking out of her grasp. She reined in the impulse to read her but she smiled.

“A woman who has everything doesn’t steal a poor merchant’s daughter.”

“I _bought_ you, because I _could_.” Emma reeled back as though the creature slapped her.

“So you keep reminding me.” Ororo felt a pang of guilt, suddenly, at the sound of hurt in her voice. Manuel’s words came back to her.

_I’m just saying that it might do you some good to take a, how can I put this… more delicate approach?_

Delicate. Ororo sighed to herself.

“Am I boring you?”

“Nay. Quite the contrary. I find you… refreshing, Emma.”

“More so now that I’ve washed.” The Wind-Rider snorted.

“Do you like books?”

“Do I like books?” Emma repeated.

“I thought that was what I asked. Do. You. Like. Books.”

“I understood. I just… I supposed I didn’t expect you to care. Yes. I love books.”

“Then you may just fit in here. As long as you respect my belongings, Emma, you have free run of this library.” Magic words. Emma’s smile was brilliant and genuine. Ororo fought the urge to give her one in return; it could be contagious, if she let it.

“Do you mean it?”

“I mean what I say. Never doubt that,” she told her sternly, but she enjoyed the smile. “Feel free to avail yourself of every scrap of paper, parchment and hide in here.”

“I’ll be here for years trying to read it all,” Emma murmured as she slowly stalked the room, happy now to have permission.

Will you? Ororo wanted to ask.

Emma felt a frisson of frustration and confusion, suddenly, and realized those emotions weren’t entirely her own. She cleared her throat. “Which is your favorite?”

“I don’t think I have one.”

“You can’t think of one single story that’s had an effect on you? That’s moved you the most?”

“Very little moves me.” Emma frowned briefly and went back to her perusal of the enormous bookcases and shelves, feeling like a child in a curiosity shop.

“Sometimes I read to get away,” Emma told her. She ran her fingertips over leather covers, savoring their smell. “When you’ve lived the life I have…”

“I haven’t.”

“Then you don’t know why I need an escape,” Emma said simply.

“Perhaps I do.” Ororo hazarded a guess. “Your father, when he came here, was starving and cold. His clothing was shabby and patched. His wagon was badly in need of outfitting and repairs.” Emma lost interest in the tome she took down and reshelved it. A frown marred her lovely mouth.

“Please don’t talk about him like that. He can’t help that.”

“We make our own destiny, and our actions mold our circumstances. He could have made a better life for you.”

“With a broken heart?” Emma challenged. “Not after he lost my mother. Not after he lost his ships.”

“He left you in squalor. I did you a favor.”

Emma’s heart quickened and she nearly fainted from shock, which soon turned to rage. She felt it simmering in her cheeks and knotting her gut. “A favor. How _dare_ you. You did me a _favor_? Oh, what a generous benefactress you are. A patron worthy of sainthood. How you’ve saved a poor wretch like me from ruin! You must sleep like a babe at night, knowing you’ve committed such a deed of immeasurable, unimaginable righteousness.”

The Wind-Rider huffed and gave her wings an odd little shake, as though she were brushing away Emma’s words. “Don’t belittle it, little miss. Tread lightly, and choose your next words carefully.”

Emma stared her down, and again, Ororo was surprised, almost impressed. The little chit wasn’t backing down? In her own parlor? It was…unthinkable.

Yet… Ororo was enjoying herself. Truly.

No one in her household, save Manuel, perhaps, ever argued with her. No one ever dared. Once in a great while, they would risk a moment of sass, but she put them back in their place with genuine fear of punishment.

Emma turned from her, trying to compose herself. She headed for the hearth, wanting to stave off the brief chill she felt and the way her hands seemed to turn to ice. She sidled up to it, rubbing her hands together before the crackling flames, and she caught sight of a large cheval mirror propped up over a side table.

Her blue eyes caught the Wind-Rider’s in the reflection, tracking her movements, and Emma frowned.

“You look fetching. Not to worry,” Wind-Rider shrugged.

“That’s not the sort of thing I’d worry about. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“An attractive girl like you doesn’t preen over her looks?”

“Not between loads of laundry or milking the cows.”

“That sounds positively dismal.” Ororo wrinkled her nose.

“Nonsense. It was intellectually stimulating, I assure you.” Emma stared into the mirror, and her curiosity piqued when she saw its surface ripple slightly. “What’s happening? Why did it just do that?”

“Do what?”

“It moved.”

“You’re willing it to.”

“Pardon?”

“There are stray pockets of magic inside my home, if you haven’t noticed yet, my dear.” Emma chafed at the endearment, and she bristled as the Wind-Rider approached her. “The mirrors in my home are enchanted.”

“Surely that’s impossible.”

“Surely it isn’t. Logical? No. Possible? Yes. If animals beneath my roof can ask you ‘How do you do?’ then my mirrors can show you much more than your own face.”

“How much more?” Emma asked quietly.

“Remember how you found me?”

“Yes.”

“All you have to do is think of where you would like to go.”

“With a mirror,” Emma continued, shocked. “Truly?”

“Indeed.” Ororo made a sweeping gesture with one clawed hand toward it. Emma drew closer to the polished glass. As soon as her fingertips grazed it, her reflection rippled, disturbed and distorted like a lake after skipping a rock across its surface.

“Where do you wish to go?” Ororo asked, as though it weren’t obvious.

“I need…” Emma stopped herself. “What do you care?” But she ignored her captor… her tormentor, now, she supposed… and grew rapt as her reflection was completely eclipsed by a swirling vortex of blue and white light, glowing like a greedy star. She felt its energy leaking out from it, almost stroking her, and Emma made a sound of delight.

Christian. She didn’t speak his name aloud, but she knew her desire was plain on her face. Father. She needed to see them both and assure herself that they were managing without her. Her brother’s wretched state lingered in her memory and stained her dreams.

As if the mirror heard her thoughts, shapes materialized within the glass, rising from the corridor of light. She heard sounds of hooves against a cobblestone street and the calls of street vendors, almost smelled the odors of steamed clams and vinegar. The crowd surged down the sidewalks, pushing past each other and bickering over prices of goods. Emma’s immediate thought was that her father should be out there, too, hawking his wares…

“Your father’s fortune has turned. One would think he would be out there, taking advantage of it.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion on the subject.”

“A sore one, is it?” The insult of the old merchant trying to steal her roses still stung, and the Wind-Rider bristled at the memory, ruffling her feathers. “I’d like to think I was rather generous.”

“With your half of the bargain?”

“With my mercy.” Emma felt a chill creeping down her neck.

“Where is he?” she murmured under her breath. Her blue eyes narrowed as she caught sight of a familiar pair of shabby black boots, then eventually her brother’s broad back. His dark waves of hair stuck out from the collar of his short coat and wool cap. Emma felt relief welling up in her chest, and she let out a gusting breath.

“That’s him?”

“He’s all I have.”

“He’s almost as pretty as you,” the Wind-Rider sniffed. “Hm.”

“Don’t tell him that. His head doesn’t need to get any bigger,” Emma mused fondly. “But he’ll do.” Emma watched Christian approach Celeste, and amusement curled the corner of her mouth. The old shopkeeper looked like she was in high dudgeon, and she flung her hands about in broad gestures. Christian’s expression was innocent, the picture of the honest, humble customer, or in this case, trader. Emma saw him tug something out of his pocket, wrapped in a worn blue handkerchief. She couldn’t make out what it was.

“I’m not close enough,” Emma complained.

“Closer,” the Wind-Rider snarled, and the mirror obeyed, bringing Emma so close to the holograms of her brother and friend that she could almost touch them.

“Thank you,” she told her hostess.

“Tuck that away for later,” she suggested. Emma didn’t have to admit that she planned to consult the mirror again as necessary. It was plain as day on her face.

Christian extracted a slender gold chain with a pendant set with a blue stone. “Lovely,” Emma remarked. 

“I had no use for it.”

“It was yours?”

“When will I wear jewelry here?” the Wind-Rider shrugged. “Half of the chains won’t fit around my neck. Nor the rings on my fingers.”

“Er… why are they all too small? Surely, with all of your wealth –“

“Don’t be so nosy,” Ororo snapped. “Watch him and stop asking such ridiculous questions.” She was more annoyed at herself than Emma for letting her secret almost slip. Emma frowned, puzzled, but the urge to watch her brother’s interactions pulled her back. 

She saw him mouth How much? Celeste tsked at him and shook her head in a manner that Emma was very familiar with, and they continued bickering and dickering. Christian was pouring on the charm, and amusingly, he reached out and chucked the shopkeeper under her fleshy chin, making her preen. Same Christian, she mused. How she missed him.

They hand-clasped on the bargain, and Emma saw Celeste pull a thick wad of pound notes from her small pouch. Emma was relieved that they would be able to afford fuel, after all, for the cold nights. The thought of her father succumbing to the ague or pneumonia made her distraught.

Emma watched Christian count the money with satisfaction and pocket it, but his smile faded as Celeste turned her back to rearrange a pile of scarves. He left without telling her goodbye, and the shopkeeper caught his retreating back just before he disappeared into the crowd. She looked as puzzled as Emma felt.

“Continue,” Emma demanded of the mirror.

“You’re getting the hang of it.”

“I’m not completely thick.”

“Of course not.” The Wind-Rider was kind enough not to add I’d have had too little use for you beyond the obvious if you were. If Emma were too tractable, she knew she’d grow bored of her.

Emma watched her brother moving more quickly, and more furtively around town. She saw him stop on the corner and speak to a grizzled, shifty looking man as he lit his pipe. Their conversation grew more animated when Christian reached for one of the notes and tucked it into the man’s hand in the guise of giving him a handshake. That was when Emma saw the constable ride by on his large Clydesdale, peering about vigilantly from beneath his shining helmet.

“I get the impression your brother runs with a colorful crowd.” Ororo’s voice was dry and suspiciously amused.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion on the subject,” Emma mentioned easily, “even if I don’t disagree.”

“What kind of business dealings involve dark alleys like the one he’s about to escape into?” Emma’s blood ran cold, and Ororo was alarmed when the chit’s face drained of color.

“No,” she whispered, “Christian… Chris, DON’T! DON’T GO!” 

“What’s wrong with you, girl? Why do you carry on so?”

“You don’t understand, you don’t! LET ME GO! CHRIS! CHRISTIAN! NO!” Emma’s demeanor changed in an instant from calm, tolerant annoyance with her hostess to unchecked hysteria as she gripped the mirror, screaming into its swirling void. “DON’T GO!”

“He can’t hear you,” the Wind-Rider snapped as she reached for her, dragging her back by her smooth shoulder. “Calm down!”

“I can’t! You don’t understand!”

“Then make me.” The Wind-Rider’s tone brooked no nonsense and held little patience. Those reptilian eyes narrowed, but not in a cruel fashion. Emma skimmed the surface of her mind and found only confusion, not scorn. She tried to catch her breath, and her voice was hoarse as she explained herself.

“He’s in trouble. He can’t go into that alley.”

“Why not? He’s a grown man.”

“He was attacked.” Emma’s eyes misted, but she closed them before the damning tears could shame her. “He-he w-was…”

“Who did it?” Ororo interrupted.

“I don’t know! All I know is that it happened in an alley, I didn’t see their faces, and he won’t tell me who!”

“Of course you didn’t see them. You weren’t there!”

“YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!” Ororo jerked back at the force of Emma’s scream, which she felt as well as heard. The residual psychic echo of her rage and fear assaulted her mind, and she shivered, wings trembling. Her talons shot out and snapped around Emma’s wrist, threatening to break it. That caught Emma’s attention.

“Slowly,” Ororo hissed. “And don’t. Leave. Anything. Out.”

“I feel my brother. I feel him. I’m connected to him, because we’re blood,” Emma allowed. “You won’t let me in, not into your mind, even though you let me occupy the walls of your home. I’ve given you little argument in that regard, milady.”

“Don’t patronize me.” Ororo reluctantly let go of her wrist, even though she could feel Emma’s erratic, warm pulse. She sighed. “So you know what he’s thinking?”

“Not from this far, but I get impressions. I barely taste his emotions. And… and now, I feel his distress. You saw him.” Emma pointed accusingly at the mirror, whose visions went dormant, leaving behind only the two women’s reflections. 

“I saw him making a business transaction.”

“No. He’s put himself into danger. He’s walking into a trap.”

“Again. Explain.”

“Chris… I felt him…” Emma couldn’t check her tears this time, and they rolled freely down her wan cheeks. “They… violated him. They did horrible things to him, unmanned him. They broke him. They broke my only brother. I felt them rip off his clothes, and then they shoved me… shoved him against the wall, and the cold bricks scratched my cheek. They hit me and threatened me, and I heard them laugh while I screamed…” Emma turned from the Wind-Rider, who appeared to be watching her dispassionately. “So you can’t truly understand why I can’t let him go into that alley. You can never understand what it is to see someone you love be hurt.” Emma went to the mirror and sagged against it, laying her forehead against the cold glass. Ororo heard her whimpering, a low, plaintive sound whose words were difficult to pick out, even with her sharp ears.

“Don’t go. Don’t leave me.” It struck the Wind-Rider, in that moment, that Emma was still giving the mirror orders, despite her admonition that Christian couldn’t hear her that way.

*

 

Emma could feel only a scant degree of Chris’ tension, but she couldn’t feel his heart hammering in his chest or shiver at the cold drafts sneaking beneath his scarf before he pulled it more tightly around his neck. He stood by in the alley, wishing he had heeded his two lovers and stayed put in their tiny loft, or even remained back at the farm. But it was too much, hearing his sisters rant about Emma’s departure and the subsequent inconvenience of having to do all of the chores themselves. Emma’s voice and soft touch, her psychic blanketing of the destructive memories, her gentle wit, all of it was gone, and he felt bereft and adrift. Vulnerable. His bruises were healing, but the emotional scars were left behind.

Jase crept out into the alley, furtively letting the door squeal shut behind him. He grinned at Chris through tobacco-stained teeth. Chris felt his skin crawl. Jase was the one who stood lookout while Shaw and Pierce debased him, and his face haunted his nightmares as frequently as the other two.

“Ran into yer old man the other day. Lookin’ a bit down in the mouth, eh? Even a pint of the house’s best didn’t liven him up.”

“Mind yourself,” Christian snarled. “I have what Shaw wants.”

“That’s up to Shaw to decide.” Jase’s chuckle was nasty and he rubbed his nose, nearly picking it. 

“I repay my debts.”

“Sure, you do.” Jase sized him, eyeing him indecently, and Christian felt himself being stripped again with that look. “Just let Shaw know the next time you feel like ‘repaying’ him, so he can freshen up first. He’s fond of other things besides money.”

“I have it. I have what I owe. I’m done.”

“He’ll decide when you’re done, pretty boy!” Jase nodded to his point man who Chris met on the street, and the man grinned and rushed at him.

“DAMN YOU! DON’T! GET-“ His words were cut off as the man shoved him against the wall. Chris struggled away, but he ran after him, tripping him, and Chris didn’t catch himself before he landed face-first in a fetid puddle. The shock of the cold water seeping through his clothes left him disoriented. Both men reached for him and yanked him to his feet. When Chris spun around to face them, Jase pointed a mean-looking silver blade at his throat. Shallow sips of breath escaped through Chris’ pursed lips. 

“Don’t,” he pleaded.

“Give us the money.”

“Take it. All of it. Just let me go.” Chris reached into his pocket, and he threw the pile of bills onto the ground a couple of feet away from them. Jase’s point man hissed in annoyance and cursed as he fumbled for the money. Jase didn’t move or take his eyes off of Winston Frost’s only son.

“Think you’re clever. Think you’re better than me, eh? My hands are too dirty to give you a go?”

“You wouldn’t…!”

“Don’t assume that I won’t.”

“You won’t.” The cool, controlled baritone shocked all three men with its nearness and intensity. Christian groaned in dismay when he jerked his attention away from the knife and stared into Jean-Paul’s ice blue eyes.

“Jean,” he croaked. “You can’t be here! You can’t see this!”

“Aye. Ya can’t. But ya’ve already seen too much, I’m thinkin’.” Jase nodded to his man, and he moved in on Jean-Paul menacingly.

He jerked in surprise as Jean-Paul feinted away, just out of his reach. “Try that again, filth,” he mocked. A hint of a smile curled the corner of his sensuous mouth.

“If you insist. Wretch,” he spat as the man reached for a tiny knife in his pocket and lunged at him. He missed Jean-Paul’s mid-section by a whisper. “Too slow.” Suddenly the dance between them became a flurry of jabs that failed to meet their mark. Jean-Paul moved so quickly and evasively that his lean body was a blur. Jase’s eyes were rapt on him, unable to fully track his motions.

“Shit,” he murmured.

“You’re deep in it now,” Christian quipped as he gripped Jase’s wrist and struggled with him for the knife. Jase swore at him, and his mouth twisted into a vicious, thin line, no longer amused with Christian. What Christian lacked in strength he made up for in desperation, and he made the best of Jean-Paul’s timely arrival and distraction. He kicked Jase soundly in the knee, making it buckle, and his grip on the knife loosened. Christian threw his entire weight at him, shouldering him into the opposite wall, and he succeeded in knocking the wicked blade from his grip. It clattered to the ground, but Christian lost his advantage when Jase’s fist flew at his jaw. Christian’s ears rang with the blow, and he stumbled back, dazed.

“CHRIS!” Jean-Paul’s eyes widened with shock and rage. His defensive maneuvers shifted to a direct attack, and he repaid jabs with fists and feet. Each blow channeled the need to get both men away from his lover, and every one left its mark. Lightning-quick jabs, one-two-three, made successive gouts of blood burst from Jase’s cohort’s nose, and Jean-Paul used his staggering momentum to drag him right into Jason Wyngarde’s back.

*

The Wind-Rider growled in alarm as Emma reeled back from the mirror. Her blue eyes rolled back in her head and her body jerked.

“What evil is this? Emma? EMMA!” The young woman stumbled as though someone shoved her, and Ororo moved in quickly to catch her before she fell over the ottoman.

“Jean-Paul,” she gasped. “No…”

“Who the devil is Jean-Paul?”

“He’s with him,” she blurted out hoarsely. “And…and…”

*

Jean-Paul rushed over to his lover, panicking over the sight of his already swelling lip and his eyes’ poor ability to track his movements.

“Jean,” he slurred. “Get… away…”

“Not without you, you damned fool,” he snapped as he reached for him, looping Chris’ arm around his neck in an effort to lift him.

He didn’t see or hear Jase’s boots scratching against the gravel or his grubby, bleeding hand reaching for the knife. Steel carved through warm meat, and Christian met Jean-Paul’s eyes and gaping, pleading mouth with a look of horror.

*

“…he’s… bleeding.”

“Stay put,” the Wind-Rider ordered coldly. Emma wasn’t prepared for the grim, menacing look in her reptilian eyes or the way her words seemed to hiss out from between her teeth. Her fur bristled and she spread her wings to their full span, disturbing the pages of an open book laying on the table. She seemed to tower over Emma, and she felt the air around the two of them crackle with energy again. 

Overhead, thunder rolled across the sky, and the blackening clouds obscured the afternoon sun before they could herald its warmth.

“I have to go to him!”

“You have to do as I say!” Her voice rose in a near-roar. “SANTO! COME!” The burly bear ambled into the library, and there was concern written on his beastly face.

“How may I serve you, Mistress?”

“Take her to her room. Don’t let her out of your sight.”

“NO!” Emma was distraught and horrified at the prospect of being locked away, despite the luxury and comfort of her suite. “You can’t! Please! I have to go to him!” The Wind-Rider sized her up, then closed in on Emma, grasping her wrist. She jerked her against her body, and mere centimeters separated their faces. Emma felt her hot breath misting her lips, saw those pupils dilate for a moment and the whiskers twitch.

“Hear me. You will obey me. You _will stay_ here, and you will still be here when I get back, safe in your room. There’s nothing that you can do.”

“HE’S MY BROTHER!”

“He’s as good as dead to you!” Emma’s cry grew, swelling in volume until she was wailing, and she dropped to her knees, despite Ororo’s grip on her.

“Take her, Santo.”

“Aye.” The bear’s voice was bleak but resigned, and Emma took no comfort from his body heat or lush fur as he collected her and dragged her from the library. Her sobs echoed down the hall, and Ororo felt her reserve crack.

She felt horrible. Truly, she was a monster to treat the girl that way. Manuel would be furious with her, but his opinion didn’t matter to her right now. She drew her hood over her shocking white mane of hair, and she went to a small box at her escritoire, digging out a small, black cloth. She tied the mask over the lower half of her face, obscuring her muzzle. It was the best she could do. She drew back the curtains of the enormous window and threw open the shutters. In one mighty leap, she was aloft, hurling herself into the clouds.

The storm sang in her blood, and she relished the burn of the freezing air as she climbed in altitude. It made her feel alive as nothing else could, and here she wasn’t an outcast. An atrocity.

Emma. Blessed and cursed by turns, Ororo mused. It made things difficult. She needed to woo her and draw her closer. She needed her heart, but it had to be freely given. Ororo was so tired of failed suits and shallow bargains gone wrong. Everyone who would be a potential mate or who had a prayer of breaking the spell was out for themselves. They all wanted to take from her. Emma’s gift of the sight made her unique, but dangerous. 

She could find out Ororo’s secret, and all would be lost.

Ororo was still rattled by her transformation from a self-assured, rebellious young woman to a puddle of rage and helplessness. It was so hard to rebuke her, but she couldn’t afford to lose time hearing her out or allowing her leverage. The Wind-Rider had to fly alone tonight.

She reached into the pocket of her gown and removed a tiny mirror, the sort that could be used to start kindling while out in the wild. Its surface clouded over, and it showed her the village, the one place she truly reviled and despised. It guided her past the hills and the stream that fed her lake, over orchards and piney brush. She circled above as she took in the lay of the land, and Ororo generated a thick fog, pulling it around her. Her eyes changed, adjusting to the cover, and she gathered lightning, short, charged bursts of it to light her way from within. 

The local farmers merely thought a late season storm was brewing, and they scurried to hustle their hens back into the coop and to lock up the pasture gates. Intermittent flashes of lightning from the soupy black sky inspired awe and fear by turns.

*

Winston huddled beneath his blanket while he drank his tea by the hearth. He felt haggard and worn out, but his daughters paid him little regard. Adrienne hummed to herself as she brushed her damp hair dry. “Where’s your brother?”

“Who knows?”

“Who cares?” Cordelia added scornfully.

“You should. He’s your blood. And…” He stopped himself before He’s all we have left escaped his lips.

“He’ll make his way home,” Adrienne reasoned, but a hint of worry nagged her. Christian had left relatively early, but she heard the thunder outside, too. She’d perused the bounty that her father brought home with him, and she noticed one of the necklaces was gone. It irritated her that she wouldn’t be able to show it off to Donald on their next tryst.

Her brother was none of her concern. Winston felt differently.

“I’m going out to look for him.”

“Father, don’t be ridiculous,” Cordelia argued. “It’s horrid out there. You’ll catch your death.”

“I won’t rest until all of you are safe under my roof!” he insisted. His voice brooked no disagreement, and his eyes shone with determination and anguish.

The sisters said nothing, only rose from their seats and found his scarf, coat and boots.

*

It didn’t take long for Ororo to find the alley. She stopped briefly to fortify her disguise, stealing a ratty old tarp from a farmer’s cabbage wagon and draping it around her broad wings. To the onlooker, she was a wretch huddled in an extra layer of rags against the cold. The lightning and thunder still boomed around her, matching her mood.

Emma belonged to her, and Ororo protected what was hers.

She heard muted groans and gasps, and the sound of a young male sobbing. “Jean… stay with me.”

“Who’s got tricks now, Frost?”

“Get away from here,” Jean-Paul rasped. He sat propped against the wall where he’s collapsed. A trickle of blood stained his lips and dripped from his chin, and his breathing was labored. 

“Bastard,” Christian hissed at Jase as he made his shaky way to his feet. Jase grinned as he toyed with his knife. He dragged the blade flat over his tongue, tasting Jean-Paul’s blood. Christian fought the urge to gag, which was tempered with his rage. He found a nearby discarded bottle in a bin of garbage, and he bashed it against the side of the tavern, gripping the mean looking neck. The spiny edges glinted in the light. Jase guffawed.

“Whaddya plan to do with that, little daisy?”

“Nothing,” a deep, guttural voice growled from behind them. “He won’t have to.”

“Bollocks!” he snapped, whirling on the source in surprise. He was stunned, then amused to find a tall, raggedy figure standing in the shadows. Odd slate gray eyes sized him up. They unnerved him, but he continued his show of bravado. “Taken a wrong turn?”

“Get back,” the stranger hissed. “You’re finished here.”

“I’m just getting started. You didn’t see anything here. Not if you know what’s good for you.”

“Don’t toy with me, little man.” Jase couldn’t believe his ears. The voice had an odd burr to it, and he could almost swear it was female. But no woman could be so large, nor would one wander into an alley to confront a stranger.

“Oh, I plan to play with ya a little longer. I love to play, sweetling.” He tossed his blade from one hand to the other.

“So do I.” In a flash, she was upon him, abandoning her makeshift cloak, and to her satisfaction, his eyes widened in terror. Her immense wings snapped open, and she beat them like an angry swan, lashing him and knocking the knife from his palm. He flung up his arm to guard his face, but found it broken from the savage beats of her pinions. The Wind-Rider reached for him and gripped the collar of his shirt. “Miserable pissant. Presumptuous,” she pronounced. “You like to beat up on pretty little boys?”

“Shit,” Christian hissed. How much had she seen? Where did she come from? He couldn’t process what his eyes were seeing. The woman – was she, indeed? – was uncommonly tall, wearing an elegant dark blue robe and a hood and mask that obscured her face, but there was something odd about her hands…

Was that fur? Were those talons extending from her fingertips? They gleamed obsidian in the dim light of the alley, and he heard low, strange growls issuing from her throat as she took down his attacker.

Christian cowered and covered Jean-Paul with his bulk as the stranger proceeded to tear Jason Wyngarde to pieces, showing him no mercy. His shrieks rose to an unholy pitch as she removed her mask and savaged his throat, suffocating him with her maw. He struggled and kicked spasmodically, legs jerking and scraping against the damp gravel. Talons rent his clothing and drew blood, and the last sight he saw was his own terrified reflection, gradually growing spattered with blood, reflected in her slate blue eyes.

“God in heaven,” Christian moaned.

“This isn’t happening,” Jean-Paul whispered hoarsely. He found Christian’s hand and gripped it, hard, and his lover wouldn’t let him go. They were facing their own brutal demise if the creature turned on them.

They watched in mute shock as she turned and stared them down. Her hood still obscured part of her face, but her muzzle – her muzzle – dripped with blood, and her mask was nowhere to be found. She was a graceful, fearsome, horrible sight.

“Get yourself gone from here,” she growled.

“He’s hurt!” Christian cried, unconcerned for his own safety. The being before him nodded sagely.

“Give him to me.”

“WHAT?”

“You heard me.” She drifted over to them almost soundlessly, moving like a lion, and Christian’s breath caught in his throat.

“Who are you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

“I’m the one who’s going to save his life, Christian.” His stomach flipped at the sound of his name from her lips.

“How do you know me?”

“You’re close to someone who’s slowly growing closer to me. Give him to me. Now.” She shoved him aside like garbage when he rose to block her from Jean-Paul.

“It… doesn’t matter,” Jean-Paul coughed. “I’m as good as dead, anyway, love.”

“Don’t say that!” Ororo calmly bent and scooped Jean-Paul into her arms, not even grunting at his weight, even though he was over six feet tall.

“Relax. You. Give me that tarp.” She nodded to her abandoned disguise. Christian scowled darkly and moved to reclaim Jean, but she rustled her wings at him in warning. “Do as I say.”

“You’re the one,” he accused. “You made that bargain with Father.”

“I freed him from his obligation after he stole from me,” she corrected him. “Do you want him to die?” Jean-Paul’s wound burned and stung, and his blood darkened his coat in a growing stain. “Cover him.”

“I’ll follow you!” Christian threatened.

“He will die,” she reminded him again. “You will lose him.” That ended Christian’s arguments. Helpless, angry tears leaked from his eyes, so much like Emma’s that Ororo almost had to look away.

“I hate you.”

“You’re not alone,” she sighed. “Kiss him.” Christian trembled but obeyed, pressing cold, soft lips to Jean-Paul’s brow.

“I love you.”

“Tell Jeanne-Marie-“

“You’ll be all right. I’ll stay with her.”

“I’ll come back to you.”

“Swear to me.”

“I love you,” he rasped. Once Chris laid the tarp around him, the Wind-Rider backed away and nodded.

“You will hear from me.” With a flap of her mighty wings, she was aloft once more. Christian crumpled to his knees as she took Jean-Paul away from him. Despair wrapped its bony, chilling arms around him and offered him no succor.

“Emma,” he whispered. “What hell did Father send you into, sister?”


	9. Gilded Cages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma receives an unwelcome flashback of her father’s ordeal. Jean-Paul’s life hangs by a thread, at the Wind-Rider’s questionable mercy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kink. Angst. Violence. Oh, yeah. THIS is a fairy tale... *hides*
> 
> And did I mention it was FURRY?

Winston parked his wagon and tethered his horses less than a meter from the Wild Duck. He scanned the street for Christian, noticing how many of the vendor’s stalls had been abandoned, their wheels submerged in puddles. The cobblestones were almost completely submerged, and it wasn’t weather fit for rats. He pulled his coat more tightly around himself and called out his son’s name plaintively.

“CHRISTIAN! Answer me! Chris! I need you home!” He peered inside doors and windows, meeting puzzled glances and pity for the strange old man who didn’t have the sense to come in from the cold. He heard a familiar screech and smiled.

“WINSTON! Are you daft? Come inside,” Celeste chided him from the door of a small tea house. She bustled and hustled him inside and helped him unwind his muffler.

“I’m looking for my son.”

“He visited me not too long ago,” she informed him. “Made him a deal on a necklace he brought along with him.”

“What? He bartered with you?”

“I didn’t see the harm in it. Emma sold me some eggs a few days ago, too.”

“Lord in heaven,” he cursed. “My children are out and about, bartering? Where was I?”

“Looking for your ship?” she reminded him innocently. He flushed.

“Hmmph.”

“Warm up.”

“I need to find the boy.”

“He’s a grown man, Winston.”

“It’s getting dark. My horses almost lost their footing in all the mud. He needs to come home.”

“He left my stand almost a half an hour ago.”

“Then he hasn’t gotten far.” Winston retied his muffler and squeezed Celeste’s plump shoulder. “Bless you.”

“Godspeed, foolish man.” He headed back into the gale, regretting it with his first step into the washed out street. The rain sheeted down horizontally, lashing his chilled flesh.

*

Christian gathered his wits about him, still disbelieving his turn of events. One man lay unconscious, and the other was surely dead, even though it was no great loss to him. He caught sight of Jase’s eyes staring sightlessly up at him from his mauled face, and Chris stumbled away to retch.

Winston was drawn to the low sound of gagging, wondering what miserable soul ended up in their cups on such a bitter day. “Overdone it, have you? Have the sense to come in from the cold, friend…” His cheerful tone gave way to surprise when he came across his only son, staggering up to his feet and wiping his mouth. He looked dumbfounded.

“Oh, Father,” Christian began as he watched his face shift. Winston’s blue eyes hardened instantly and he clenched his fists.

“So this is what you’ve done. Celeste told me about your barter. You sold the jewelry. What did it pay for, Chris, a few pints?”

“Father, please…”

“I don’t want to hear it. Come away from here, you careless fop.” Christian reeled back as if he’d been struck. “I know what you’ve been up to, even though I have no idea who you’ve been running around town with, but it has to stop. I won’t have my own blood shaming me, do you hear? Christian? What’s wrong with you? What’s this?” He closed the gap between them and saw the blood flecks spattered on his son’s coat. “Christian, what hap-“ His voice died when he saw the two bodies lying behind him in expanding puddles. Blood mixed with rain water and filth. Jase’s point man subsequently drowned face down in a puddle during the scuffle. Winston clutched his chest and paled. “What have you done?” he whispered.

“It wasn’t me,” Christian pleaded. “Father, you have to believe me!’

“That man’s dead!”

“I didn’t do this!”

“Look me in the eye when you tell me that!”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Father! I didn’t buy ale! I swear to you!”

“You can’t tell me you weren’t involved in this!” Winston reached for him and shook him like a doll. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!”

“I paid… my debt…” he sobbed.

“Debt?” Winston demanded. “What debt?”

“To the Trident,” he told him miserably. His eyes were bloodshot, warming with fresh tears. “I owed big. I lost big at the tables. I thought the cards were turning for me.”

“Cards,” Winston said numbly. 

“I was going to pay them off. I sold a necklace. I didn’t think you’d miss it, Father. I even had money left over, but I gave it to Jase –“

“Shaw’s man?” Winston reeled. “Of all the… Christian, we’re ruined. Finished. You’ve crossed the wrong man.” Christian paled.

“I know. I’m done for.”

“We have to get ourselves gone from here. Help me.”

“What?”

“Drag them over here.

“Father, we can’t-“

“Get over here and help me. Make yourself useful, you bastard.”

“Father…” Christian mustered his wits and swallowed down hurt, hating that his father confirmed his disdain of him so openly.

Winston dragged the bodies behind some old bins and he began to cover them with piles of trash and discarded burlap sacks. The alley stank, and he couldn’t wait to go home and scrub himself clean. Christian still looked stricken and slightly sick as he carried the feet of the second man, helping his father haul them out of sight. He hated himself for his part in concealing his deeds, even though they didn’t die by his hand.

“I didn’t do this, Father. You must believe me.”

“Then who?” he snapped as they made their way from the alley and moved quickly, disturbing every puddle on the way to the wagon. They scanned the street furtively for anyone who might have caught sight of them.

“It was her.”

“WHO!” Winston hissed loudly.

“The creature. The one you sold my sister to, you old bastard.” He stopped Winston as he took up the reins, barely having seated himself on the bench. Winston paused, and his mouth turned into a grim line.

“I don’t believe you.”

“She knew my name. And she was horrible. Wings like some great bird out of my blackest nightmares, Father, and the snarling teeth of a jungle cat.”

“My stars,” Winston whispered. “It was her.”

“She protected me. Lord only knows why.”

“And Emma?” Winston looked bleak.

“She wouldn’t tell me. She only said, ‘You’re close… to someone who’s slowly growing closer to me.’ She knew who I was to Emma, Father.”

“Then she’s all right,” Winston breathed. A cold swell of relief clogged his chest.

“She is, but Jean-Paul isn’t! He came to help me, and they stabbed him!”

“Who the devil is Jean-Paul?” Winston snapped himself free of his reverie and stared at Chris as though he grew another head.

“My… he’s my friend.”

“Friend.” Winston shook his head. “How you shame me.”

“Father.”

“What.”

“Fuck you.”

Christian ran from him then, down the streets and into the torrents of rain. He had to reach Jeanne-Marie.

*

Emma paced her suite miserably after soaking the pillow with her tears. Banging on the locked door didn’t help. Dani and Rahne hovered restlessly in the corner of the room, occasionally snarling at her to calm down.

“Do settle down, colleen,” Rahne told her for the fifth time.

“You’re making me dizzy, walking round and round like that,” Dani chimed in with a lupine growl that sounded like a sigh.

“He’s cold,” Emma ranted. “Cold and alone… he’s been hurt.”

“Wounded?” Rahne inquired.

“His heart’s been broken, and he’s so afraid. Christian’s so lost, and I can’t go to him,” Emma railed, flinging up her hands. “It’s not fair!”

“Mistress said to stay put.”

“She only wants to keep you safe.”

“SAFE? I’m being kept captive! I’m locked up!” Emma’s cheeks flushed with anger. She abandoned the fine gown in favor of a voluminous cotton nightgown, and her feet were once again bare. She took down the elegant upsweep that Marie-Ange worked on so diligently, and her long blonde hair hung down her back in a gleaming spill.

“Mistress will take care of it,” Rahne assured her.

“She doesn’t take threats lightly.”

“Threats? She wasn’t threatened,” Emma spat.

“A threat to your family is a threat to you,” Rahne clarified solemnly. Her yellow-green eyes bore into Emma’s and she padded forward, nosing her palm. Emma automatically scratched behind her velvety ears, calming instantly when she made physical contact with the she-wolf.

“Mistress protects what’s hers.”

“She saved me once, from a man who was beating me,” Rahne mentioned. Emma’s face softened at the thought.

“How awful. You poor dear.”

“I was young.”

“Just a pup?”

“Er… yes.” But Rahne panted and wagged her thick tail, thumping it against Emma’s legs as she found a particularly itchy spot with her short nails. Dani came up and nudged against her, practically tripping her from the other side.

“Don’t forget me.”

“As if I could, silly.” Emma huddled on the rug by the fire and let the wolves surround her with their warm bulk. She caressed and scratched them thoroughly, responding to their occasional nudges and licks, not minding their faint musk and hot breath. Emma respected animals, and Winston had never allowed his children to keep pets that they couldn’t afford.

But these weren’t pets. They were companions in every way, confidantes, and an outlet for her emotions and fears. The faint thrum of their breathing and low huffs soothed her. Dani laid herself over Emma’s lap, thumping the floor with her tail. Rahne licked the pulse in her wrist, simply enjoying her flavor and scent. The pull of their fur between her fingers felt sensuous. Rahne pawed her and burrowed her nose into Emma’s side. She yelped slightly, ruining their combined reverie.

“That tickles.”

“Ye smell nice.”

“You saw me bathe.”

“Aye. That I did.”

“Emma?”

“Yes, sweet?”

“You’re beautiful.” Dani pawed her thigh.

“So are you.”

“You mean it?”

“Of course.” Dani thumped her tail, and she seemed to look inside Emma with those big, soulful, surprisingly… human brown eyes.

Dani rose slightly, yawning and stretching, and she surprised Emma by ducking her head into the pulse of Emma’s throat. “Oh!” Her raspy, warm tongue lapped at her skin, and she felt a prickle of pleasure. It reminded her of the Wind-Rider taking liberties with her in the library, but this was different. More drawn out and deliberate…

“Goodness,” Emma breathed. Rahne stirred and yawned, as well, pawing Emma’s lap. She wagged her tail.

“I want to taste her, too,” she complained.

“You’re so soft,” Dani murmured softly as she nuzzled Emma’s ear, seeking it out from beneath her sweet-smelling hair.

“What are you doing?” she asked, but she didn’t fight either wolf’s actions. They were gentle and inquisitive, or so she assumed, but she wondered why they were getting so familiar. Her hands stroked their scruffs, combing through it as her throat was lavished with warm, long laps.

Rahne was pawing at her lap again, coming alarmingly close to her crotch, and her breath steamed Emma’s breast through the cotton. Her nipple peaked, sensitized by Dani’s solicitous tasting of her flesh. “Oh. My.” Emma heard the crackle of the flames in the hearth and the thunder as it continued to crash outside. Rain beat down against the turrets and the bell tower. 

She nearly swooned at the feel of a hot tongue insistently pushing at her nipple through the cloth. Sensation bloomed outwardly, spreading across her entire breast and drifting down into her groin. “Rahne…”

“Let me,” Rahne pleaded huskily. “Emma, it’s been far too long.”

“Too long…?”

“We can please you,” Dani agreed. She was similarly affected by the sight of Emma’s pleasure, her skin gaining a rosy tint of passion. She nuzzled Emma’s opposite breast until that nipple peaked, too, and she growled and whined low in her throat.

“What do you want from me?” she murmured, closing her eyes in rapture as she sank back against the rug.

“To make you forget, just for a while,” Rahne assured her, pawing at the neckline of her gown. She climbed up so that her other forepaw was planted in Emma’s lap while she lapped at the crown of her cheekbone, and this time it found its mark as she stepped into her crotch. Accidents happened, certainly; it was common enough for a dog owner to have their little Spot or Sparky land too hard in their lap, but it was different when it was deliberate.

“Please,” Dani begged on a small whine.

Emma opened her eyes and nodded solemnly. Her hands trembled as she undid the buttons of her gown. She stood and let it drop, standing naked in front of the hearth. Both wolves caught their breath at her beauty, pristine and lush. Emma was all soft curves and flawless skin, and her nipples made them slaver, the perfect pink of tourmalines, the aureoles ringed in slightly deeper mauve. A springy thatch of darker, honey blond hair sprouted over her sex, and Emma’s hands protectively crossed over her belly.

“Don’t hide,” Rahne encouraged.

“Lay down,” Dani urged. “We’ll keep you warm.” Emma obeyed, sinking down to her knees, and the wolves resumed their session of exploring her body, this time unhindered.

They mapped out her body with their damp noses and tongues, slowly and painstakingly, and Emma swirled in a haze of uninhibited lust. Once the barrier of the gown was removed, she felt the full impact of their mouths misting over her, lapping up her flavors. They laved her nipples, whining and whuffling over the feel of their stiff peaks teasing their lupine lips, barely grazed by their teeth. The soft hollows of the pits of her elbows, where her neck met her shoulder, and the dent of her waist, none of it was left unloved, but completely worshipped. Her hands occasionally stroked them or held their heads closer where she wanted them to focus their efforts. Her suite filled with the sounds of moans and low words of praise.

Rahne’s head descended down to the tempting mound between Emma’s legs. Its musk thrilled her, calling out to her as soon as Emma sat on the rug, and she couldn’t leave it alone. “OH! Oh. Oh…”

“Delicious,” Rahne murmured around Emma’s tender, spicy flesh. Emma was already damp, glistening and dewy, the hint of moisture darkening those nether curls. Rahne nosed her way between the soft folds of her sex, and her tongue cleaved between them, spreading them as she tasted her. Dani’s head bumped hers, attempting to nudge her out of the way, and she teased those lovely, springy curls, searching out the tiny nubbin just atop the crease.

Success. Emma’s eyes flew open and she gave out a little shriek.

Rahne and Dani were in rapture. It had, indeed, been too long. Emma writhed and squirmed atop the fine rug, moving in the rhythm set by two lupine mouths, thighs spread wide. They were quivering, tiny little shivers making her breasts and belly jiggle. Emma’s hands drifted up to her breasts, which felt bereft of the she-wolves’ attention, she she kneaded them, plucking at her nipples. She imagined how she must have felt to them…

She’d never tried to read an animal’s mind, not intentionally. But she had to know what they were feeling. Suddenly, Emma’s gentle probe was rewarded by a crush of emotions, chaotic in their intensity. But there was so much admiration, passion and contentment, a sense of something lost, regained.

And again, she felt rapture, but this time, it belonged to them in equal measure. Joining herself with them, psychically feeling them moving over her in concert with their loving of her flesh eventually pushed her over the edge. She shattered.

Her orgasm rippled over her flesh, welling up in her sex, rising up into her belly and making her nipples strain and tingle. Dampness bloomed and spilled out from her in a gush, and both wolves eagerly lapped it up, preening and cleaning her lips and thighs.

“That was lovely,” Dani sighed as she resumed her place laid out across Emma’s stomach. Rahne lowered her head to Emma’s thigh, spent.

“Aye.”

“Aye,” Emma agreed. She felt the heft of their fur beneath her stroking hands, watched their backs rise and fall with their gusting breath, and gradually all three of them fell asleep.

Emma’s misgivings about her hostess followed her into sleep, and her dreams were uneasy.

*

Ororo landed in a clearing less than a meter from her estate. Her arms were weary from Jean-Paul’s weight, but he was limp and weak from blood loss, and the young man was alarmingly quiet. “You won’t die on me. There’s too much at stake.”

“M-monster,” he rasped. But he burrowed into her warmth, a prisoner of instinct. Ororo sighed.

“So I’ve been told. Stay with me.”

“C-cold.”

“That will change. Be patient.”

“Chris…” His voice faded as his head collapsed against the side of her neck. She felt his breath, warm but shallow, and it worried her. “Help…him.”

“Don’t worry about him,” she snarled impatiently, but she was gentle as she laid him down on the ground. Her taloned fingers flew over the buttons of his coat, unfastening them and spreading open the blood-drenched wool. She probed his wound, which went clean through from front to back. “Poor wretch,” she muttered. He groaned in pain, body tensing in response to her touch.

It was a shame, too; he was a lovely lad, tall and all taut, sculpted muscle, with thick, soft black waves of hair with intriguing bits of snowy white throughout, even though he didn’t look a day over twenty-five. He had a proud face with high, sharp cheekbones and a square jaw, and when his eyes opened drowsily, they were enviably blue, the same shade as a summer sky.

“Cold!” he complained through chattering teeth.

“Don’t let it be said that I risked a man’s life while standing on propriety,” she told him crisply. Sighing, she rose to her feet, and without a second thought, she untied the corded belt at her waist, dropping it. She opened her robe, letting it fall from her shoulders, and she divested herself of it fully. Jean-Paul gasped in shock. The creature, what he had seen of her so far, was hideous enough from the neck up.

He passed out from surprise. Ororo sighed.

“All right then. No need to be so blunt.”

Ororo ignored the wind and rain lashing her bare flesh; she found it bracing, even as it rattled the leaves from the trees. Her mood hadn’t settled yet, so the weather continued to mirror her distress. 

Jean-Paul didn’t feel his body being lifted from the ground again, or the robe being carefully pulled around his body to shield him from the draft. Taloned fingertips combed his hair back from his brow tenderly, and warm breath misted over his skin as he was nuzzled, given the reassurance that yes, he’d be all right, that he’d see Christian again.

He could only pray that the husky voice didn’t lie.

*

 

Emma woke to sunshine filtering through the sheers and the sound of low voices in the corridor. Dani and Rahne were gone and the sheets were cold, which disappointed her, but she stretched langorously. Oh, what a lovely encounter that was…

Emma wanted to feel guilty about what she’d done, but somehow, it didn’t seem wrong. Perhaps it was unnatural, she reasoned, but it was so new, the sensations so different, so heady, and the two she-wolves took so much pleasure in giving her pleasure.

Her poor father would deem it sinful, and deviant, and unseemly. And yet… her sister Adrienne was hardly discreet with her trysts, and Christian had more exotic bed habits than it was polite to discuss. All she had done with Rahne and Dani was play, far from home, away from prying eyes or gossiping lips. For the most part, her maidenhead was still intact, so wasn’t her virtue, by extension?

Emma grinned to herself and reached down, skimming her palms over her smooth belly. Her body still tingled with remembered passion. But it felt odd to her to still be in bed. Emma was so used to having a routine, and it was out of character for her to lay idle. She rose from bed and found the simple nightgown. In the middle of the night, someone had folded it neatly and set it on the ottoman; she wondered if it was Marie-Ange.

Emma shoved her feet into her worn slippers and trekked down the hall, hoping she remembered the way down to the breakfast nook. She followed the scent of frying eggs and other mouthwatering odors, and her stomach growled impatiently. “That’s enough of that,” she chided it aloud.

“Do you always talk to yourself?” Jenny purred as she padded after her, catching up to her easily when she reached the stairs.

“I was talking to my stomach.”

“Mine was talking to me, too, dearest. It mentioned that some salmon would be nice.”

“It would, indeed,” Emma agreed. “Er, Jenny… where’s your mistress?”

“She’s… occupied,” the cat hedged.

“With what?”

“She just had something to attend to. She’ll be down directly.”

*

Jean-Paul was finally sleeping peacefully, and Ororo sat back on her chaise, legs raised to soothe their low throb. She was exhausted, and it had been a long night.

Once Ororo carried him inside, she took Jean-Paul directly to her suite, one of the largest in the house. It was also one of the farthest from Emma’s room, so she would have some much-needed privacy. She didn't waste time once she was inside her chamber. She no sooner laid Jean-Paul out on her sumptuous bed than she rang for Santo.

When the great bear lumbered into her suite and saw the stranger on the bed, he growled in alarm, but she snapped at him to keep his wits about him.

"Fetch me my potion book and my herbs. I also want the iron kettle," she demanded, making him a list. "I need my box of instruments, as well. They're in the stable."

"Why are they out there, Mistress?"

"I had to nurse and dress Wilhemina's leg last week," she told him, as though he were thick. "Just go out and fetch it, already. This one's bleeding badly. I'm worried he won't make it through the night."

"Has... has he seen you?" The bear's voice was wary, almost accusing.

"Yes. But he's delirious. If we're lucky, he'll stay that way for a while." 

"Where were you?" His muzzle scrunched up in confusion.

"It's none of your business. Just do as I say, and quickly." Her murky gray eyes narrowed, and Santo felt the temperature in the room drop. Ororo's hair suddenly rose and crackled with static, and that send him lumbering away, questions silenced for the moment.

 

The next few hours taxed her. Ororo worked alone feverishly, cleaning and probing the wound with her instruments. She fed him a draught of evil-tasting brew from her healing herbs, which he choked on and tried to spit out, but she forced it down his throat, pinching his nose shut to make him open up, then clamping his lips. He fought her with what little strength he had left, and she pitied him, hoping this wasn't the last thing he experienced before his demise. He gasped and choked, and to her relief, his color improved slightly; he was no longer as gray, and his eyes weren't as glassy. 

"Thank...you," he rasped.

"Any time, sweet. Any time." The words were ludicrous. Her beastly face was stoic and quizzical. "How on earth did your friend acquaint himself with the types who do business in dark alleys?"

"Please. Help him. Help... Chris."

"I did. He's out of harm's way." Ororo hummed a little melody that was foreign to his ears, but her voice wasn't unpleasant. On the contrary, it was a deep, comforting thrum, perfect for murmuring to someone in the dark. She worked on him by firelight, and all he saw was the outline of her body and head. He stared quizzically at her horns.

"Those are real?"

"Quite."

"Were you... always like...?"

"No. Are you always this rude?"

"Yes. I prefer 'blunt.'"

"I guess there isn't much standing on ceremony right now," she agreed with a shrug. Jean-Paul was sweating from the heat of the fire that she'd stoked up in the hearth, and his skin was bare. She'd stripped him of his blood-soaked, torn clothing, and she hadn't bothered to put on a new robe, deciding it would only get in the way. 

She dipped one of her instruments in boiling water to sterilize it. "I'm going to give you something else right now."

"Please, don't."

"It's laudanum," she assured him. "You're going to need it." Jean-Paul felt lightheaded, more from the shock of what she was suggesting than the blood loss.

"Then do it."

"I'm sorry," she told him flatly as he downed the dose. She set down the cup. "I'm going to gag you, now." She pushed a folded rag between his jaws and tied it neatly behind his neck. His blue eyes widened and he shook his head as she took two more scarves and raised his arms, anchoring his wrists to the elegantly carved bed posts. He fought her, but his strength was depleted, and he read her intent in her face. She meant him no harm, but she was going to hurt him, nevertheless, to heal him.

Her heart broke at the first muffled screams as she explored his wound with the probe. She whispered to him soothingly. "It's all right, sweet. I know what I'm doing. Think of something else." She wiped his brow with a cool cloth, and he squeezed his eyes shut, letting fat tears leak through his long, dark lashes. "Think of Christian. He's such a pretty thing, like you. Think of sharing a pint. Think of riding out to the beach." She cleansed his wound of clotted blood and dirt, and he wept and whimpered around the gag, but he nodded at her words. "You're playing in the waves, feeling the sand suck at your bare toes. You can taste the salt in the mist, feel the wind pulling at you, lifting your hair. Feels good, doesn't it?" The laudanum had a narcotic effect, and Jean-Paul forced himself into the delirium it offered, lulled by her words to step outside of himself, vacating his consciousness.

The shock of the pain was eventually too much for him, she surmised. He passed out, and she carried out the rest of her work with him not moving an eyelash. Ororo cauterized his wound, a tendon here, a vessel there, using her lightning in minute, focused charges. It was painstaking, detailed work, and she was covered in sweat. Her eyes began to hurt and her shoulders were sore from hunching over and the additional burden of her folded wings.

But she sewed his wound neatly shut; the stitches would leave a tiny scar, the only imperfection marring an otherwise perfect body. Jean-Paul was lovely in repose when she removed the gag from his mouth. She gently wiped his face with a cool cloth, washing away the tearstains and sweat.

She felt a tightening in her sex at the sight of him laid out nude, skin mildly tanned. She'd guessed correctly, he was an outdoorsman who no doubt enjoyed the activities she'd described. She laid her palm flat against his chest, feeling his heart beat in a regular, healthy rhythm. His pectorals were rounded and hard, and she spread her fingers over them appreciatively, caressing his firm skin. Oh, but he was a perfect specimen.

She drew herself up and snapped out of her reverie. He was also taken. And helpless. Ororo growled at her own foolishness, her selfishness. She was a beast.

But she wasn't a monster.

She called Santo into the suite to help her change the bedding, and then she dressed him in a fresh tunic for the night. Finally, Ororo pulled the bedclothes up over his chest and drew the curtains shut around him. She would sleep in the adjoining suite. He wouldn't wake up to her face in the morning, and if all went well, he would think it was all just an unpleasant dream.  
*

"Back here, Shaw," Pierce beckoned, holding his torch aloft to give Sebastian more light to see by in the fetid alley. The swarthy business owner stared down into the faces of his two men, dismayed that one of them was his groom.

"Jase." He nudged the body with his foot, and the body didn't make a sound. "Who did this?"

"Nobody saw 'im go back here," Donald shrugged. "Plenty of folks had it in for him, though."

"I know that," Sebastian snapped. "Why was he back here?"

"Might've been shylocking for you, I'd wager," Donald suggested. A light went on in Sebastian's eyes.

"Someone who owed me money."

"Like I said, plenty of folks would've seen him coming and run."

"And run they did," he agreed. "One man in particular." He rummaged through the trash, spying something dark and gray. He picked up a soaking wet wool cap that must have gotten lost in the scuffle.

"What's wrong with his neck?" Pierce asked, frowning. He bent down and tugged Jase's head back by his lank hair, exposing the strange, deep gouges at his throat. "Shit. Look. It's like a dog mauled him, or a bear."

"A bear." Sebastian tsked and clouted him soundly upside the head. "Get up. Call the constable. We'll let them sort this out."

In the meantime, Shaw already knew who he planned to finger when they called for a witness.

*

 

When Emma reached the kitchen, food was already set out on the table, but there was only a place set for one. "Where is everyone?" she muttered aloud. She spied a note on the pantry door and smiled, wondering who could possibly have written it.

Help yourself. Stay in your room or in the library until you are summoned.

That perplexed her. She expected her hostess' vigilant attention for the day, and she almost didn't trust this sudden, convenient freedom.

Then she remembered: She wasn't truly free. The Wind-Rider literally had eyes and ears throughout the castle. No move that Emma made would be a mystery to her. She sighed in dismay.

Emma poured herself a cup of tea and lifted the lid from a dish of pancakes. She daintily plucked two from the pile and transferred them to her plate. Her first bite thrilled her; they were sweet and fluffy, begging for a splash of syrup and a pat of salty, creamy butter. She sampled the eggs and selected an apple from the large bowl of fruit in the table's center. Breakfast was lonely, but it was satisfying, she mused.

Emma scanned the house briefly, searching for thought patterns or some loose fragment of emotions. She found a few familiar "voices," namely Santo, who was just outside the castle, no doubt foraging for his own breakfast. Rahne and Dani were still asleep, and that made her smile mischievously.

Manuel was still in the house. She sensed a few more sets of thoughts that she didn't recognize, but by their pattern, she knew they were animals. It still mystified her that her psychic talents extended to reading non-humans...

...what on earth?

"Who are you?" Emma asked in surprise. She found the thoughts that belonged to someone very human, indeed.

And he was sleeping upstairs.


	10. Imprisoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christian's reunion with his lover precedes his worst nightmare. Emma's confronted with the truth of her father's sojourn at the Wind-Rider's castle. And once again, she begins to dream...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is SO NOT FLUFFY. This is the Anti-Fluffy. This is pain. This is suffering. This is Ororo being a total bitch. 
> 
> Get ready.

Emma hurried back up the stairs, ignoring her voluminous nightgown and nuisance it posed of tripping her. The thought patterns of the strange male were faint, but growing stronger the closer she grew to that end of the house.

"Who are you?" Emma asked again to herself. "And what are you doing here?" Her heart hammered at the thought of another person - another human - in the strange estate. She wondered if he could help her escape? Was the Wind-Rider holding him captive, too? Had someone bargained his life away, and if so, what was his fate?

Better still, what was hers?

Emma's mind reeled and she broke out in a cold sweat. There were still too many unknowns surrounding her situation and her status in the castle. Guest, or prisoner? Which one was she? Was the Wind-Rider her hostess, or her jailer? Emma reached the top of the stairs and jogged down the hall. She heard low, skittering steps in the corridor and she wondered if the tiny animal servants were tracking her location.

 _It's time to go_. Emma picked up a stray flash of thoughts from the beast, and she shivered. Her psychic tone was calm but determined, and there was something furtive in her mood, almost secretive. Emma hesitated in her quest for information. The Wind-Rider was the mistress of all the secrets that Emma knew the castle held, so what would she be trying to hide?

The young man's thoughts were foggy, almost discernible. But suddenly...

_Christian. Have to get back to Chris._

Emma emitted a low cry. "Chris!" She made her way down the next hall, to the west wing. She vaguely remembered the creature telling her that her parents once lived on that side, that was where their suite was located... and Emma's access to it was forbidden.

She didn't care. "CHRISTIAN!"

Ororo's heart leapt into her throat with uncharacteristic panic. "Damn! Damn it to hell!"

"Unnnngh..." The young man stirring in her arms moaned and squirmed in her embrace. Ororo held him easily against her, cradling him like a child despite his tall, muscular physique.

"Quiet. Be still." She received no argument, but she had no room for hesitation when the doorknob jiggled insistently. 

"Hello? HELLO?"

"YOU DON'T BELONG IN HERE!" The Wind-Rider roared to deter her. But Emma wouldn't be swayed from her purpose.

"LET ME IN, NOW! I know you have someone in there! I can FEEL him! And he knows Christian! YOU LET ME IN, NOW, YOU DIRTY BEAST!" 

A flare of rage bloomed in Ororo's chest, but before she could give it her full attention and focus, she made a last-ditch decision. "Hold on tight, love," she whispered to Jean-Paul. "I'm taking you back where you're needed most." She reached quickly for a small vial on the vanity, and she briefly caught her reflection.

Was that desperation in her face? Tinged with fear? Ororo's eyes narrowed and she shook herself.

"SANTO!" Emma cried out as she latched onto his stray thoughts.

What on earth is the matter, my lady?

"Come to me! I need to get in here! Hurry!"

As you wish.

Emma was grateful that he heeded her without question. Within moments, the ursine leviathan lumbered up beside her. He growled in confusion. "Milady, this is Mistress' chamber."

"Knock down the door," Emma ordered coldly. He huffed in surprise.

"She won't have it."

"This door stands between me and whomever she's holding captive inside," Emma snapped. Her cheeks were florid and her eyes shone with anger. Santo growled uncomfortably, his tone almost a low whine.

"This won't do," he informed her with a heavy sigh. Then he rose up on his hindlegs, standing massively tall, and with a mighty swipe of his left paw, he knocked the door off its hinges, scattering splinters and tearing the lock from its setting. The heavy wooden door hit the suite's floor with a loud BOOM!

The room was unoccupied. Emma let out a tiny sob and covered her mouth with her knuckles. "NO!"

"She's taken flight," Santo informed Emma futilely. "She's gone north."

"You can tell that?" Emma spun on him in surprise. "You know which direction she went that easily?"

"I can smell her scent on the wind. Emma rushed toward the window, whose long, heavy draperies swung in the breeze with loud flaps. She cursed under her breath at the chill in the air, her long nightgown no protection against it, and she saw the Wind-Rider's winged silhouette disappear into a rolling murk of fog.

"That's a dirty trick," Emma muttered. "Santo, she's gone!"

"She will be back, and no doubt irritated about the loss of a perfectly good door. Are you always this destructive with other people's property?" he inquired, ignoring the fact that he had done the actual bashing in question. Emma snarled under her breath and threw up her hands.

"I need to know where she's taking him."

"It's Mistress' business where she took her other guest," Santo reminded her, attempting to turn her away from such a touchy topic. Emma's blue eyes widened.

"You know," she accused.

"Er..." Santo sat back on his haunches and slightly ducked his large, shaggy head. Emma could swear she saw fear in his eyes.

"You know who she was keeping here."

"Not... really."

"You can't lie to me."

"Er... after a fashion... I might have some inkling, milady."

"Who was he, Santo?" Emma asked softly, taking a different tack. She reached up and scratched the great bear behind his sensitive ear, and he made a low, whuffling growl of contentment.

"Mistress will be angry with me if I divulge too much."

"Please," she implored him, continuing the petting and enjoying the warm, comforting feel of his plush fur. Her voice was smooth as honey. "I can't rest until I know. It's important to me. I heard his thoughts, Santo. He was wounded, wasn't he?"

"He was bleeding when she brought him home last night," Santo mused on a low near-purr as she continued to scratch his head and neck, leaning into her touch.

"Bleeding?" Her shift in demeanor made him rear up onto his hindlegs again, completely alert and less trusting.

"Please calm down, milady, and here me out." He huffed at her glare, nonplussed when she planted her hands on her rounded hips. "Mistress wants to protect you."

"That's the prevailing theory," Emma sighed, "even though it has too many holes in it for my taste."

"You were... distraught last night, milady."

"Just call me Emma."

"You're above my station."

"That's open for debate, here. Your mistress is above mine."

"She doesn't have to be... if you give her a chance," he suggested.

"Pardon?"

"I apologize. Ignore that last bit."

"No, what did you mean when-"

"Milady! I know that things took an untoward turn last night."

"To say the least."

"I carried you back to your room when you fainted," he pointed out.

"What?" Emma paled.

"You might have forgotten, but before Mistress left last night, you swooned. It was most unsettling. We'd feared the worst."

"You can't blame me," she murmured. "My brother's life was in danger. He's the only person in my life, other than my father, who loves me unconditionally." Santo rumbled low in his throat.

"Don't sell yourself short, milady."

"What do you know of love, you silly bear."

"You're distraught. I'll let that one go," he told her charitably, but he prefaced it with a growl of warning. Emma caught a flash of hurt when she read his emotions, and she once again felt that odd... unsettling feeling that she was missing something when she had these verbal exchanges with the Wind-Rider's odd menagerie.

Then again, it wasn't every day that she held a conversation with four-footed, furry or winged creatures, was it? Not any where they actually spoke back, she mused.

"Emma," Santo murmured as he began to lumber away.

"Yes?"

"That young man was attacked by the same one who threatened your brother. His name was Jean-Paul." With that, he left her alone, mumbling under his breath about How on earth will we fix that door?

Emma's mind raced as she darted back to her chamber, her previous plan for breakfast completely ignored.

*

She was evasive when Rahne and Dani padded into her suite and asked her how she slept.

"Er... restfully." Rahne gave her the lupine equivalent of a smug smile.

"You were out like a light," Dani pointed out, and Emma heard the same satisfaction in her voice, feeling it resonate in her emotions. She pushed it aside and refocused herself on the task at hand. She went into the armoire and pulled out a plain brown homespun dress with an empire-cut waist and full skirt. She pulled on heavy wool stockings and her sturdiest, hardest leather boots, glad she brought them with her. "What on earth are you putting that on for? You've so many lovely new clothes to choose from!"

"That one won't do at all," Rahne chimed in, whuffling and scratching her ear with her hind foot.

"It will do for now. I'm not going to be sipping tea in the library or partaking of any other ladylike pursuit," Emma informed them crisply. She adjusted the fastenings and ties on her dress and rapidly plaited her hair in a long, snug braid that fell halfway down her back. Both wolves sighed, wondering what bug crawled under their guest's bonnet now.

"Where are you going?" Dani asked.

"I can't tell you."

"If you won't tell us, then we can't let you go, milady," Rahne growled, bunching back her muzzle. Emma scowled and swatted Rahne's rump with a small, dainty fan, making her whine like a cub.

"You have little choice, dearies. There are things I must know, and your mistress isn't being forthcoming."

"She has her reasons," Rahne explained as Emma found her heavy, drab cloak. She did up the buttons and pulled the hood over her head, concealing her lovely golden tresses.

"She's divulged precious little of them since I've arrived. I abhor all of these bloody secrets in this house."

"Please don't say such things, milady," Rahne suggested sadly. Dani whined in her throat and nuzzled her mate. Emma felt as guilty as though she had kicked them.

"I wish you'd tell me what I need to know."

"I wish I could. Such things aren't within our purview, sweet." Dani sighed as Emma rummaged through the vanity. "What are you doing?"

"Looking for that little mirror," Emma muttered as she nudged aside brushes, tubs of cream and powder and other trinkets. She yanked open the drawer and let out a brisk "AHA!" as she found the silver-handled looking glass. She tucked it into her pocket and her cloak swirled out behind her as she strode out the door.

"EMMA!" Rahne cried. Both wolves dogged her heels, yipping, whining and making a large fuss. "Where are you going? You mustn't leave! Mistress will be upset if you aren't here when she returns!"

"You don't even know when she will return, or where she's going, or why," Emma complained sourly. Her strides were long, graceful and determined. She sprinted down the two flights of stairs toward the huge foyer and main hall. Manuel hopped out from behind the large grandfather clock and stood his ground, nearly tripping her. He almost looked cute as he cocked his ear curiously and held out his paw to halt her progress.

"You mustn't go, senorita. I can't let you. Mistress forbids it."

"Your mistress isn't my mistress," Emma argued. "She can keep me from my family, but she won't keep me in the dark. I won't have information witheld from me when it concerns my own blood. My brother's life is in danger, as well as his friend, and I need to go to Christian. He needs me there more than your mistress needs me here."

"BUT-" Emma cut off his pleas as she nimbly side-stepped the hare. Manuel's emotions were a frantic tumble, and she felt a flash of real fear from him, desperation and... despair?

"I can't stay."

"You MUST! EMMA! SENORITA! Don't go!"

"I must go to Chris! I'm sorry," she called back, hating herself for distressing the poor little creature.

Suddenly Emma felt a sharp, painful nip at her calf. "OW!" Manuel looked guilty as she kicked him loose from beneath her skirt. This time, there was no mischief in his thoughts or intent. He fixed his dark, beady eyes on her and spoke gravely.

"If you leave, you must come back immediately," he told her.

"I'll have my father give back everything your mistress spent in buying me." Emma's voice was cold and bitter. "But I need to return to find my brother. I can't rest until I know he's all right, and I owe that much to Jean-Paul for trying to protect him."

"The Wind-Rider saved them both," Manuel told her haughtily. "You owe her more than you think."

"Promise you'll come back," Rahne called out, bringing up the rear.

"You must," Dani added tersely. "Don't argue this with us."

"She can buy whoever she wants," Emma grumbled, but she sensed their anxiety, and it seeped deeply into her consciousness, flooding her with new guilt. "All right. I will return before nightfall." With that, she spun on her heel and left.

"Santo, follow her," Manuel murmured.

"At a distance. Otherwise, she'll hear me, whether I make a sound or not."

*

 

The mirror seemed to pulse in Emma's hand as she headed for the stable. None of the Wind-Rider's subjects stopped her, so she deemed it acceptable to borrow one of the horses.

Her breath caught when she spied the four perfect white mares penned inside, each in individual stalls. The barn was immaculately neat, and they each supped on a generous supply of oats. Emma approached the first stall and waited to get the beast's attention. The mare regarded her warily at first, but then she approached the guest, sniffing and lipping at Emma's hand when she reached out to touch the mare's ears. 

"I need your help," she informed the mare. To her surprise, the beastie didn't reply. "You don't talk?" she said aloud. The mare tossed her mane and butted at her hand, looking for treats. Emma reached into the horse's grain bag and offered her some oats, talking to her soothingly. She found a well-oiled, clean saddle and blanket, and within minutes, she was astride the beautiful creature, trotting at first, then cantering into the woods, finally breaking into a steady gallop. The mirror flashed and suddenly fogged over. Emma ignored the cold bite of the wind and the sudden rain pelting her flesh as she waited for the mirror's image to clear. It wasn't long before the Wind-Rider appeared in its surface, flying hell-for-leather, carrying a tall, lean body against her with seemingly little difficulty. She was an awesome sight, feathers rippling, her long white hair whipping out behind her in a wild tangle. The image clouded briefly, and Emma cursed.

"No! COME BACK! I'm going to find you, damn you!" Emma reined in her mount for a moment, and it reared up at her sudden stop, but she brought the mare back under control, leaning down and caressing it with low shushing sounds, stroking its firm, smooth neck. "It's all right, girl. I'm sorry." She still felt bereft at the lack of a reply, but the horse whickered at her, annoyed at being brought up short. She headed in the direction that she thought Ororo would have flown, but the mirror's surface still remained blank. "Drat." Her horse fussed when Emma tried to sway her away from where she wanted to go, but then she noticed the river bubbling less than a meter away. "You're thirsty? I'm sorry, sweet. I'll let you drink." The mare flicked her tail and trotted them toward the sparkling water.

Emma was baffled when the horse carried them right through it, fording it and quickening her pace as they reached the opposite bank. "What on earth? Oh!" The horse whinnied and resumed its previous gallop, and Emma clenched the reins so tightly that her palm developed a blister. She reached for the mirror, and its surface was swirling again, showing her the Wind-Rider once more. "You knew! You wonderful beast! You knew I was going the wrong way! I'll give you more apples than you can eat once we reach Father's! Thank you." Her only reply was a low whicker as they headed through the forest, reaching the end of the tree line. The mare's hoofbeats increased in volume as they hit a rocky, gravelly trail, and Emma realized they were on the main road toward the village. Her heartbeat quickened in anticipation, but she was terrified. 

What would Father think? What happened to Christian? Emma was upset that she hadn't had a flash of Christian's thoughts since the night before. Foreboding wrapped its icy fingers around her heart.

As the city's gates grew closer, Emma looked up into the sky and saw a figure emerge from the gray murk. "There," she huffed. "I see you, monster. You won't hide my brother from me; this, I swear." No more secrets. No more subterfuge or a monster's insistence that Emma had no right to pry, or that she yield. Emma's cheeks grew hot with a mixture of anger and impatience.

Emma entered the village at a canter, then slowed to a trot. Shopkeepers flicked her a brief glance, surprised at the fine white horse and the bedraggled girl astride it. She ignored them and resumed her perusal of the mirror. She'd lost sight of the Wind-Rider and Jean-Paul once more. Emma wondered if the glass would tell her where Jean-Paul lived...

"That's it," she whispered to herself. "Mirror, take me to Jean-Paul's."

But before the mare or the looking glass could respond, Emma was accosted by two gentleman in severe, dark garb.

"Miss Frost, please come down from your mount. We need to have a word with you."

"Whatever for?" she demanded, reluctant to dismount or dignify their demand.

"You're wanted for questioning in the recent murder of two men last night. We believe your brother and father were involved." Emma's heart pounded and her blood ran cold.

"No! No, that can't be! You're wrong!"

"Come with us."

*

 

Ororo landed in a narrow alley, much less fetid than the one where she'd found Jean-Paul. She knew it wouldn't help her cause to return to where she'd abducted him. He stirred against her but said nothing. His color was better than it was the night before, no longer that sickly gray, but his face was too drawn for her taste. She sighed and gave his temple one last, brief nuzzle. "It's all right. I'll return you to where you're missed." She liked his scent and the feel of his firm, supple body against hers, and once again, Ororo regretted the unchangeable. 

She laid him down on the spare blanket she'd carefully draped around him and peered out into the street. She remained cloaked with a scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face, and her hood once more obscured her horns. Only her unsettling, slate blue eyes were visible, and she wore heavy gloves to hide her talons this time. She folded her wings neatly and consulted the pocket-sized mirror again. It gleamed, then clouded over when she told her "Take me to the one this man loves."

She expected to see Christian, but instead, the mirror revealed a lovely young woman with long, black, wavy tresses and light blue eyes. She had a winsome figure and looked a great deal like Jean-Paul. Ororo was surprised. "I thought I was bringing you back to your friend," Ororo accused him softly.

"Nnngh..." He stirred and smacked his lips, then groaned in pain.

"You're not tip-top yet," Ororo reminded him gently.

"Chris," he muttered.

"I can't find him. I wouldn't know where to look first, darling."

"Aur- Aurora," he muttered.

"Who?"

"Aurora. Where is she?"

"She? Ah. Lovely woman, dark and pretty like you?" That made Jean-Paul's eyes open, and once again Ororo was taken by how pretty they were, such a clear, pure shade of light blue. It dawned on him who she was, and he began to panic, attempting to jerk himself upright. "No. Stay where you are. I told you, you're in no shape."

"Stay back!"

"I'm here to help, if you'll let me. You're wounded, badly."

"Where's Christian?" he hissed, rewarding her candor with a fierce glare.

"I don't know. Your guess is as good as mine. But Aurora is nearby, if my source is correct, and it usually is." Jean-Paul scowled.

"Jeanne-Marie. I'm the only one who calls my sister Aurora."

"Ah. Your sister." That explained enough to Ororo. "That's why we're here, then. You recognize this place?"

"Damn... ow. Yes. We're in the alleyway behind our tenant home."

"That's convenient." Ororo was thankful that the mirror directed her to the alley, since it would seem odd if she just randomly knocked on the front door, dropped off Jean-Paul with his sister, and then said how-do-you-do before taking her leave, on black-tipped wings along the north wind.

"I need to find Christian."

"No, you don't. Not yet."

"He said he would stay with us." The attack in the alley was coming back to Jean-Paul, one gruesome image at a time, and his eyes were desperate. "He needs to see me! He needs to know I'm all right!"

"He will, in due time."

"You! Chris... he didn't trust you. He didn't want you to take me."

"I'm not someone people around here trust to tend to their loved ones at first glance," Ororo said wryly. Her eyes flashed white, briefly, and Jean-Paul heard thunder rumble in the sky. "Christian has an issue with me right now, to put things lightly."

"Lightly?" Jean-Paul almost shouted. "You're the one. You took Emma from him."

"That's not altogether accurate. I demanded her from their father, and she came to me."

"Not willingly."

"She walked into my castle on her own two, dainty feet." Ororo tried not to sound smug, but she was in no mood to pacify Christian's lover, when he really needed to get inside from the cold. "Your sister must be worried. Come along." She bent over him, but he fought her, rearing back and scuffling away on his haunches.

"No! Don't touch me!"

"I've seen you naked. Don't be shy," she mocked. Jean-Paul looked horrified, and Ororo chuckled. She was all right with his hatred, as long as he had some fight left in him. That meant he would recover from his injury. But in the meantime, she couldn't afford to be polite. She reached into her pocket and swooped down on him, wrestling him onto his back. She held his wrists high above his head and uncapped the vial she brought along with her, and he struggled futilely, cursing and gagging as she forced a few drops from it into his mouth. He spat them out, but the medicine was fast-acting and potent. His vision blurred, and he felt weak and disoriented. Before he blacked out, he felt Ororo loosen her grip on him and shift him, lifting him from the cold ground.

"Jeanne-Marie will be thrilled to see you. But not to see me," Ororo mused as she consulted her mirror again, carefully covering Jean-Paul with the blanket, obscuring his handsome face. She headed inside through the back door, kicking open the shoddy, creaky door. She descended the stairs, surprised that it led to a basement of some sort.

Ororo saw an equally shabby interior door, its varnish worn and brass knob rusted and slightly bent. The corridor was frigid, and she wondered how they managed to live like this. She was unaccustomed to squalor, herself, and she pitied Jean-Paul and his sister. She sighed and knocked on the door, listening for sounds on the other side.

She heard quick footsteps and someone panting, a feminine voice, and she guessed it was Aurora. That was Ororo's cue to take her leave. She gently set Jean-Paul down, propping him against the wall. She didn't wait for Aurora to answer the door, and by the time she reached the corridor, breathless, heart pounding in her throat in anticipation, the Wind-Rider was gone.

She shrieked and sobbed with relief when she found Jean-Paul huddled against the wall, wearing fresh clothes and a clean dressing on his wound. She sank down beside him and pulled him across her lap, cradling him while he slept. She just needed a moment... just a moment to recover her bearings.

Her tears were thick, her sobs were loud as they wrenched themselves from her throat, but the one person who she loved in this miserable world had been returned to her.

*

 

Winston huddled miserably in the cold, dark cell, staring balefully at his only son, who sat across from him in the corner. Both men were cold and unshaven, dirty, and dried mud spattered their worn boots. They were restless and exhausted from a sleepless night, and neither of them could believe the horrors that befell them in a mere few hours.

Christian and Winston argued at length as Winston tried to force him into the wagon to head home. "Get in, damn it! We need to get ourselves gone from here!"

"No! I can't leave! I need to go to Aurora! She'll be devastated when Jean-Paul doesn't come home!"

"I don't give a damn! You're my concern, not her, and definitely not that... that fop," Winston spat disdainfully.

"You don't even know him, Father!"

"I know enough about the kind of people you attract. I know about your 'hobbies.' Get in the wagon.

"No. You go. I need to go to his sister."

"You should have remained home with your own sisters! They're home alone, on a cold dark night, when the one who should be protecting them is out here, fraternizing with thugs, meeting with your deviant friend -"

"I should be protecting them, Father? You mean like you protected Emma? You looked out for our best interests? She worked like a slave to take care of Cordy and Adrienne, all while you just roamed around the countryside and the beach, looking for your miserable fucking ships-" Winston's palm struck Christian hard enough to make him bite his tongue and his ears ring. He stared at his father numbly. Winston's pupils were dilated, and he was panting, hand poised to strike him again.

"Never judge me. Ever."

"That won't be a problem anymore, Father. I'm no longer your son. You've judged me for the last time, too." Christian turned on his heel and ran down the street. Winston paled, realizing what he'd done, what he'd said...

"CHRIS!"

Christian ignored his father's voice, and hot tears zipped down his cheeks, teasing the corner of his mouth. He stumbled through puddles and nearly fell off he curb as he crossed the street. The cobblestones were slick and hard to discern in the dark, with too few candles lit in villager's windows and very few of the lanterns lit in the street.

"YOU! HALT!" Christian's stomach dropped into his shoes as he heard footsteps hurrying after him. He saw the constable come trotting up on his bay horse, and he knew that he and his father were in trouble.

He bolted, determined now to hide, dissuaded from his goal of finding Aurora. His heartbeat and footsteps pounded and thundered in his ears as he ran, careening around street corners and knocking over crates and rubbish bins, bowling over a vendor's barrel of apples. "STOP!"

"Bugger off," Christian muttered. His chest burned and his soles complained about the rough treatment he gave them, protesting the feel of the knobby cobbles beneath them. The sound of hoofbeats seemed to close in on him, thundering up behind him, and Christian's last impression before he felt the impact of the club was that there were too few stars in the sky...

*

 

Winston sighed. "You wouldn't listen to me, and now look where we are."

"We'd have ended up here, anyway." Christian shrugged hollowly, then chuckled, an ugly, gruff little sound. "You were so worried we wouldn't get home to Cordy and Adrienne."

"They're home alone," Winston spat.

"Hardly. Adrienne's no doubt with Donald, letting him under her skirt. He's no doubt mounted her behind the Trident by now."

"SHUT YOUR MOUTH!" Winston's face turned beet red, and he balled up his fist menacingly.

"It's true. If you're in the dark about it, then it's your own fault." The color drained from the old man's face, and he sat back against the wall, staring down at his hands when he could no longer meet his son's gaze. He had lost his family, but it was even worse to realize that he didn't know them at all.

*

 

Ororo hadn't even reached the city's gates before she heard a high-pitched ping in her pocket. "Blast," she muttered as she reached into it and extracted the mirror. "What now?" The image swirled briefly and revealed Emma, but not the clean-scrubbed, outspoken houseguest she was about to return to.

She saw her on foot, leading a white horse - one of Ororo's precious white mares - by its reins while she was being roughly escorted by two hard-looking men. She saw a sheriff's insignia on the one man's coat, and Ororo huffed in rage. She sputtered in confusion and shock.

"What... how? Oooooooo!" Ororo spun on wing-tip and careened back in the direction she came from, summoning a jet stream to carry her at impossible speed toward the village. "That little upstart! How dare she?" Ororo wasn't sure which of her servants she'd skin first, but she planned to hang their pelt over the fireplace once she returned to the castle.

A frisson of fear clutched Ororo beneath her veil of red rage. Where were they taking Emma? Why had she come to the village? Worse yet, where was that fool brother of hers? Scenarios crowded Ororo's head, and each one was worse than the last. The sky was dark, now, and it had nothing to do with Ororo's powers. There was an incoming storm, one that threatened to flood the valley once it fully blossomed. Ororo could taste it, feel it singing in her veins, and normally she wouldn't mind, since she was so far up the mountain.

But Emma had rode into town unescorted, and she couldn't fly. She was vulnerable. Ororo's wing muscles strained with the effort, but she pushed herself harder, faster toward her goal. In her mind's eye, she saw Emma, helpless, cold, confused...

That simply wouldn't do at all.

*

"Milady's been gone too long."

"Enjoy her delay for what it's worth. She'll have all of our hides for letting Emma go."

"I don't know that we could have stopped her," Jenny meowed. "She's a determined little thing."

"And a minx," Santo grumbled.

"Got that spot behind your ear, I take it," Rahne said dryly.

"Do shut up."

"The storm's growing; I can smell it," Marie-Ange admitted.

"We all can. My fur's standing on end," Roberto informed her. "Mistress is in a foul mood."

"I hope they're both all right."

"They'll be back, right as rain, Danielle." But Manuel was fidgety, nose twitching, and he couldn't stop rubbing his ears nervously with his paw.

"This doesn't bode well," Santo told them. "Not well at all."

"We're doomed."

"You mean cursed." The occupants of Ororo's castle miserably let the she-wolf have the last word.

*

"What's the meaning of this?" Emma demanded, drawing herself up proudly, not caring how bedraggled she looked, catching a brief vision of herself in their minds. Annoyed, she also felt a frisson of lust emanating off of them, due in no small part to the rain that drenched her humble gown, plastering it to her body. Her nipples were erect, sensitized to the cold.

"You're wanted for questioning. We have evidence fingering your brother, Christian Frost, in the deaths of two men."

"Where is he?"

"We're holding him where we can keep an eye on him."

"You've placed my brother in custody? He's in prison?" she accused, blue eyes narrowing into hard slits.

"Not to worry, love. He's in good company."

"Your father is also under suspicion," the deputy chimed in brusquely. Emma gasped.

"Release my father, AT ONCE! Have you gone MAD?" she shouted, feeling her heart pound, ricocheting inside her ribs. "He's elderly and frail! He deserves to be in front of a warm fire, safe in his bed!"

"It's likely he was an accomplice. We found sign that both of them were in the alley where we found both victims."

"The alley?" Emma drew herself up short, and panic consumed her.

Drat. Drat, drat, drat. Confound it. The sheriff and deputy eyed her suspiciously, realizing that she knew more than she let on.

"And where were you, madam? Last night? You've only two men in your household, am I right?"

"I don't see why it should matter who lives on our property," she said haughtily. 

"We'll haul every Frost we can find in for questioning. Do you know what happens when we place someone under arrest and place them in custody?" the sheriff murmured as he invaded her space. He advanced on her until Emma was backed up against the side of her mount, with the man's breath misting hotly over her face, scented with acrid pipe tobacco. Her stomach quivered from the menace in his expression and the contact of his pelvis pressed against her belly. "We search them. We take them into a dark little room," he crooned, "with no one there to stop us from stripping them down."

"You won't have to take me," Emma assured him, eyes flitting from the space between his brows to his lips, which he licked in anticipation. It sickened her.

"Oh, but we do," he argued smugly, and she felt wicked glee surge in his deputy's thoughts behind him. "We have to make sure you're telling the truth. If you have nothing to hide, little Emma, then you shouldn't be afraid to come with us."

"Who said I was afraid?" she snapped. But her chest was heaving and her cheeks were flushed, and she slapped away the hand that found its way to her breast, giving it an experimental squeeze. Emma felt nauseous, a sensation curbed only by his sharp slap against her cheek.

"Don't get fresh."

"Stay away from me. Get your hands off of me." Emma feinted and squirmed from one side to the other, while her mare whinnied and shied. He felt her body tense as he toyed with her, gripping her slender wrist in his manacle fist. It aroused him, and the need to dominate her superseded common sense.

The wind howled, almost masking a rush of flapping wings, but Emma saw glowing white eyes and hair that was no less brilliant in the gloom. How was it dark, when she had breakfast only a few short hours ago? Her breath hitched, and her anger gave way to terror as the Wind-Rider's talons found their mark. The sheriff's face twisted into a mask of disbelief as he was savagely lifted into the air.

"AAAAAAHHHH!"

"You dare," Ororo hissed as she swept him along into the jetstream and flew higher, faster, tearing screams from his throat. Triumph mingled with rage in her breast. She smelled a hint of urine and smiled demonically, enjoying his humiliation.

"FatherinheavenprotectmeFatherinheavenprotectmedon'tdropmeDON'TDROPME-"

"You laid your foul hands upon what's mine. You've committed a sacrilege, and you will pay, little man."

"NO! Please! I swear, I didn't-"

"You'll swear nothing to me." Ororo throttled him, squeezing his windpipe until only a needle's breadth of air could escape. He realized with horror that he was only being held aloft by the wind and her mean grip around his neck. His legs kicked futilely, feet finding no purchase. There was far too much air between him and the ground. Far too much. Toomuchtoomuchtoomuch...

"Urrkggkk...kkkg..."

"I can't hear you. Did you just beg me for forgiveness?"

"Nnngggk. Gkkk." Spittle flew from his mouth and his eyes rolled back in his head, bulging horrendously. 

"You disgust me." She dropped him like a dirty rag, and he free-fell on the whipping wind for countless seconds.

Emma watched his descent in horror, hands clasped over her mouth. "NO! DON'T! YOU CAN'T! I'm begging you, please!" Her vision blurred with tears as she willed her fearsome keeper to hear her, to heed her words.

Don't do this. You're better than this. Ororo cursed under her breath as she felt Emma touch her mind, heard her psychic cry and tasted her terror. She remembered the incident over the lake and once again felt the guilt, heard Manuel chiding her for her rudeness.

"For you. Only for you," Ororo muttered as she corrected her flight, changing her trajectory. She careened into a sharp dip, summoning a counter-wind to buffer and slow his fall. His scream was long and choppy, like the jerky, interrupted speech of someone driving a wagon over cobbles as the wind stole his breath, whooshed into his lungs, puffing out his cheeks in a grotesque mask.

You're more trouble than you're worth, little one. Emma collapsed against the horse's warm hide, hanging onto her bridle to steady herself and relieve her wobbly knees. She heard the Wind-Rider's voice in her mind, impatient and chiding, and she never knew she would feel so grateful for its presence. 

"Hear me. This one's under my protection. She's sacred. You won't violate her with your touch. I'll know if your foul breath so much as mists over her cheek." The Wind-Rider shook the sheriff like a rag doll, then shoved him away from her. He was a gibbering mess as he scooted back away from her on his haunches. His deputy helped him to his feet, but he, too, cowered at the fearsome beast that spoke - growled - with a woman's voice. "You try my patience." They needed no further bidding, scrambling awkwardly into their saddles. Their horses' whinnies resembled screams as they spurred them into a ridiculous, breakneck pace through the village.

"You don't know how glad I am that you showed up," Emma exclaimed hollowly as the Wind-Rider collected herself, rustling her wings and folding them neatly across her back. She soon wished she had remained silent.

"You. DARE."

"Oh, my," Emma squeaked, dismayed at the renewed rumble of thunder in the sky. Lightning split the billowing clouds with white-blue fire, throwing arcs and ribbons of light in a mad array. It would have been beautiful if Emma wasn't so terrified, once more.

"You left my estate. On one of my mares. Those are sacred animals. Untouched. Unsoiled. Unused."

"This one was champing at the bit to be ridden," Emma argued as she reached down to stroke the timid animal's nose.

"IMPUDENT." Ororo's eyed dilated, and static made her hair rise up in an eerie nimbus.

"I had to find Chris. And... and that man you were keeping in the castle. I don't know how you could be so deceitful as to keep him from me, when I was so worried about my brother! How dare you!" Emma snapped. "You don't scare me. You can't control me! I'll never willingly obey you, no matter how many pretty dresses you throw at me, or if you promise me an entire library of books! You're a MONSTER. You're a heartless beast." Emma's pulse raced when her rant was cut off by a taloned hand circling her wrist. The Wind-Rider's body was a hard wall as she jerked Emma into it, and once again, hot breath bathed her face in harsh gusts.

"Go back to the part where I don't scare you," she murmured. "Tell me again." Emma was in danger of wetting her drawers.

"You d-d-don't."

"You're coming with me."

"NO!"

"Yes."

"Help! Help! Help meeeeEEEEEEEEEE!" The Wind-Rider wrested Emma's grip from the bridle and leapt astride the antsy mare. The horse bucked and shied, but Ororo maintained her grip and added insult to injury when she yanked Emma over the saddle, forcing her to hang on in ungainly fashion. With a savage "HYAH!" the creature goaded her mount into a breathless gallop!

Emma was torn between struggling to hold on or to get free. The cobblestones became a blur to her line of vision from where she hung over the side of the horse. The Wind-Rider took the decision from her hands, manhandling her, scaring her out of her wits with each jerk until she was properly seated, riding side-saddle in front of her captor.

Her mistress. The niggling thought hit Emma, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. She didn't know whether to be relieved at the change in predicament or not. On the one hand, she'd escaped the castle. On the other, she'd nearly been raped. Now, she was back in the beast's clutches again, and she hadn't laid eyes on Christian for her troubles. Emma mulled these events miserably as the mare traversed the now familiar landscape, climbing back through the hills and brush. 

The being behind her resonated with anger and disbelief, and Emma shivered. Or perhaps that was from the cold and the wind whipping through her hair, much of which had come loose from her plait, and her hood refused to stay up. She tried not to let her teeth chatter, but it was a vain effort.

A long, slender arm wrapped itself around her waist, pulling her close. Emma felt the creature's body heat at her back, and short, surprisingly soft fur grazing the side her neck. She stiffened at the initial contact, but she felt a change in the temperature as the Wind-Rider shared the atmospheric barrier she generated around her, a minor aspect of her power. Warmth flooded Emma's muscles and chilled flesh, and she released a breath she didn't know she'd been holding, sighing at the change.

The scent of Emma's hair was a distraction, its soft tendrils tickling Ororo's face as they rode up the gravel trail. She wanted to focus on rage, dwell upon Emma's betrayal and the ugly shock she'd received that morning, but it was difficult. Ororo felt frustrated at the conflicting emotions. How dare Emma. How dare she defy her. 

But the sight of that man groping her, forcing himself upon her enraged her, and nothing else mattered than the immediate need to protect her. Even if she now wished to throttle her. Even from her vantage point in the sky, she saw his filthy hands roaming her body, felt Emma's scorn mingled with terror. Emma's psychic shields slipped, and her empathy leaked out, projecting instead of receiving. Ororo felt her helplessness, and it unnerved her. She was thoroughly unaccustomed to that condition...

...unless she was inflicting it. It irked her.

Emma, once she was warmed, found herself better able to enjoy the exhilaration of the mare's swift, steady gallop, the way her muscles contracted and rolled beneath her and how the gusts of wind filled her lungs. She felt the Wind-Rider's anger slowly losing steam, but she was still vexed at her. Emma hadn't given up on her demand for answers, and she was still determined to contact Jean-Paul about Christian. Her brother's freedom was her obsession, and woe to anyone who came between Emma and her goal.

Even if "anyone" happened to be a six-foot tall, winged creature who could fling lightning from her fingertips.

Emma felt the Wind-Rider's arm tighten around her waist, and her body responded without her permission, molding itself to her bulk, goosebumps rising on her arms. She still felt the uneasy conflict of knowing she shouldn't trust her, but she couldn't deny that she needed the protection she offered, now more than ever. Christian was a marked man, and by extension, she, too, was suspect.

"Why so pensive, pet?" the Wind-Rider purred. Her tone mocked Emma, making her fume over her predicament even more.

"You know why."

"You can enlighten me once you've bathed." Emma opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. Then, briefly, she lifted her sleeve to her nose, wondering if her hostess was correct.

"I don't have to explain to you why I'm vexed at this turn of events," the creature added. "When I expect you to come down to breakfast, you come. Promptly."

"I did. I wasn't particularly hungry after what I discovered."

"There wasn't anything to discover."

"I beg to differ. And I won't be kept in the dark."

"What happens under my roof is my business."

"That will change, if you expect me to grace you any further with my presence." Emma drew herself up haughtily. "I don't trust people who keep secrets."

"That's ironic, dear. Especially since you've compromised my trust, running off with one of my precious mares without permission."

"Would you have granted it?"

"Nay. Don't be ridiculous."

"Now I'm ridiculous."

"Nay. You're the child of a thief." Emma's cheeks colored and she felt shame envelop her with hot prickles.

"I resent that."

"Of course you do." Irritation lingered between them, bitter and sticky. They finally reached the clearing of the Wind-Rider's estate, and as the mare slowed to a trot, Emma began to wrest herself free. "Don't be so hasty, miss."

"Let me go. I'm tired of riding for one day." Ororo snorted, and she reined the mare in, allowing Emma to slip down to the ground. She stalked toward the castle's entrance in high dudgeon, eager to put distance between them. 

Don't be so hasty, the Wind-Rider beckoned, and Emma froze. She hadn't realized that her shields were still down, and the beast's thoughts were still open to her. She obviously knew it, as she directed them to her with little discretion. We're not finished.

"We will be, very, very soon," Emma muttered aloud. She heard the beast's low chuckle as she retreated to the barn to stable her mare.

Emma's strides were long and quick as she made her way into the foyer. Before she could head for the stairs, however, Santo stopped her. "Nay, miss."

"Nay? Why?"

"You're not to retreat to your rooms just yet."

"She told me she expected me to bathe. I don't pass muster."

"She would like a word with you first. She mentioned this before she went out. She was rather insistent about it." A cold gravity settled over Emma with his words.

"I see."

"Wait here."

"You can go back to what you were doing."

"I can't."

"Oh." Emma's shame grew as she realized how her flight from the castle must have angered the Wind-Rider, and it occurred to her that her servants must have suffered from their failure to keep her there. Santo's eyes shone with hurt, and guilt stabbed at her.

"May I wait by the hearth?"

"Aye." She was still cold, and the foyer was too open, chilling her. She missed the sheltering warmth of the Wind-Rider's buffer, almost regretting the distance she put between them. Emma retreated to the kitchen, warming herself by the hearth, flexing her stiff fingers. Santo accompanied her, standing like a sentinel by the door.

"You don't have to stay."

"I do."

"So be it." 

"Milady?"

"Yes, dear?"

"You angered Mistress. I can't describe how much."

"I realize that." Emma's stomach knotted and her heart pounded in her chest. She kept her back turned on the great bear, hoping he didn't notice her consternation.

"I don't think you do. A suggestion."

"Certainly."

"Once. No more."

An uncomfortable silence rested between them, and Emma felt stifled by her heavy coat now. She unfastened it and hung it on a nearby peg, and the heat from the hearth sank further into her bones, giving her some relief. Then her stomach growled, reminding her that she'd skipped breakfast. 

The food was still laid out on the table, dishes untouched and still covered. Emma lifted the tea towel laid over the bowl of biscuits and selected one, not caring that they had gone cold. Her stomach wasn't choosy at this point. It was still light and flaky, if a bit dry, but before Emma could reach for a spoon and some of the berry preserves, she felt a malevolent presence enter the room. The hairs on her nape stood on end and she shivered.

"Come with me."

"I haven't eaten."

"More's the pity. Come along." Emma paled, and when she set down the unfinished biscuit, her hand shook. She turned and faced her hostess, and she was alarmed to see that Santo had disappeared. Emma's eyes darted back to the Wind-Rider's face.

The creature's expression was eerily calm, too collected. Calculating. With an elegant gesture, she waved Emma ahead of her toward the kitchen's door. Reluctantly, Emma preceded her through it, surprised to see a hallway she didn't recognize before. It wasn't as well lit, and there were no windows to the outside.

Emma jumped at the sound of hissing sparks, and suddenly, she could see the corridor clearly, illuminated by white light from behind her. She turned and gasped at the ball of what appeared to be lightning dancing over the creature's palm. The light picked out the Wind-Rider's features, rendering them more sharply in the gloom, and Emma felt as though she were staring Death in the face. Leonine eyes examined her coolly, and her lips curled back from her teeth in a low snarl.

"Where are you taking me?"

"There's something I need to show you before we can further our acquaintance, darling Emma. I don't think I was succinct enough when we first met."

"About what?"

"About guidelines. And boundaries."

"I see."

"No. Not yet. But you will." They reached a tall, heavy door with a slightly rusted lock. The Wind-Rider reached into her cloak and pulled out a ring of small brass keys. She inserted one with jagged teeth into the lock's hole and gave it a sharp twist. The lock gave way, and the door swung open with a low squeal of hinges that made Emma's teeth clench. The Wind-Rider nodded to her, beckoning for her to enter. Emma noticed that there was no actual room, only a stairwell, one which she couldn't see the bottom of from where she stood. "Go."

"Surely not alone?" she demanded.

"I will accompany you, dear." 

For now.

Emma felt the psychic channel between them close itself completely off; the Wind-Rider had been shielding her thoughts since she entered the kitchen, but now she masked her emotions as well, so abruptly breaking the connection between them that Emma felt as though she had lost a limb.

The Wind-Rider felt her apprehension, finding herself completely immersed in it. She took no joy in what she did, she realized, but it still had to be done. There was no help for it. In her heart, she knew she risked losing Emma. She risked losing everything. The spell would bound them forever.

And it would destroy her.

"How far down does it go?"

"Far enough." The stairwell wound around, and around, seemingly endless. It boggled Emma's mind how far they had descended so far. Her footsteps sounded hollow on the stairs, and it grew chillier. This time, she felt no warmth emanating from her hostess; she was completely vulnerable.

It was so difficult for Ororo not to touch her, to want to reassure her. Terror had filled her heart the moment she realized that Emma had run off, alone and unprotected. Despite her anger with the girl, Ororo was relieved that she crossed the threshold of her estate unscathed. She was torn, so tempted to strike her, yet... at most, she would likely scold her like an errant child deserved. Then, perhaps, bathe her, wrap her up and send her off to bed with a hot cup of tea in her hands.

Things weren't that simple. Emma wasn't truly a child. Ororo had no time for juvenile antics, even if Emma felt her actions were justified. Ororo chuckled inwardly, with great irony; Emma had certainly gotten her attention, hadn't she?

She didn't like what she had to do. Not one bit.

They reached the bottom of the stairwell, and Emma hesitated. "I don't wish to go any further."

"You must. Come, now."

"I'm... not fond of the dark," Emma confessed.

"I've grown rather accustomed to it," Ororo shrugged. "As you well might have to, darling." Cold terror froze Emma's blood in her veins.

"What are you saying?"

"Come with me." The Wind-Rider's taloned hand wrapped itself around her upper arm and pulled her along. Emma's feet dragged, but Ororo expended little effort taking her where she wished to go. "There's something you need to know about your father's visit, darling. It was unannounced, unwelcome, and unseemly. I extended my hospitality to him, at first, much as I have to you." They came to a door, which the Wind-Rider also unlocked, and Emma noticed a profusion of cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling. She hissed in disgust when she felt something scrabble over her foot, hearing the sickening chitter of a rat.

"I knew his whereabouts from the moment that he entered my home. I have sharp senses and instincts, you see, not unlike a great cat on the hunt. Through my servants, I have eyes and ears, as well. Your kindly old father couldn't make a move, or so much as sneeze or fart without my knowing it. It was no trouble to let himself warm up by my hearth. To feed him. Lay out some warm clothing. Rest his weary feet and head." 

Emma knew she was staring at a prison immediately. The lightning ball illuminated rows and rows of sturdy iron bars, and Emma noticed a faint stench of rotted food and stale urine. She gave a small cry and covered her mouth to hold back nausea. 

Ororo fought back guilt at her distress, but she continued to speak. Her tone was low and calm, but even her lightning ball wavered slightly, losing some of its brilliance. "He went into my garden. That, I cannot abide."

"They were flowers. Miserable, bloody flowers that would die, anyway. It was a trifle. He only meant to bring me back a trifle, you bloody beast!"

"You call them a trifle. I'll forgive you your ignorance, darling, but only because I was unable to forgive him his transgression. Manuel told me you went into my garden the other day."

"I wanted some fresh air!"

"I would think you'd had enough out at the lake."

"You're a cruel creature. Aye, madam, I've deemed you cruel, and heartless. You'd hold me here, for the sake of mere blossoms?"

"I deemed you a fair price. Aye, your father was telling the truth when he said you were lovely." Emma shook her head, and tears spilled from her eyes. They didn't move the beast; she only strengthened her resolve. "I kept him here. I didn't trust him once I caught him redhanded."

"You kept my father in this cold, stinking hell? You forced him down here?" Emma's eyes were bleak, and her heart shattered.

"Aye. Here is where he slept. I gave him time to think about his transgression, while I considered the proper punishment, and the bargain for his freedom."

"Monster," Emma whispered.

"You don't often meet talking animals. My home is fraught with magic, dear. It's brimming with it. That much you've witnessed, and more. You're unique, yourself, darling. It's not often I meet someone who can tear the very thoughts from my head, or speak without moving her lips. Your father was crafty; he didn't want to let you go, because you're precious, a rare flower. Like my white roses." The Wind-Rider sighed, and her ball of lightning shrank, dimming the glow in the cell. "Enter."

"No!"

"You have no choice in this matter."

"There is a choice! Kill me! Go on! Take my life!" Emma beat her chest with her fist, and her cheeks were reddened and tear-streaked. "God, how I hate you! I won't stay with you! I won't! I'd rather die than... than fulfill whatever strange, twisted purpose you've brought me here for. I'd rather die. Do you understand me." Her bosom heaved like a bellows, and her breathing was uneven and ragged, as though she'd run for miles.

It hit Ororo at that moment that she was truly doomed. 

She was resigned. There were some things she needed to sort out.

She cracked open her wings and bared her teeth, and Emma stumbled back, scrambling to get away from her. She looked like a vengeful swan protecting her cygnets, and Emma knew one sweep of those wicked wings could break her arm. She was willing to die, but perhaps not so painfully, and in one piece.

"Get. Inside."

"You can't just leave me here."

"If you would repeat your father's folly, you would suffer the same punishment."

"I hate you." Emma drew herself up, and before the Wind-Rider could advance upon her again, she backed herself into the cell. She tried to master the urge to weep, but the odors gagged her, and she instead began to wretch into the stagnant corner.

"I hope you enjoy the luxury of your new quarters. Perhaps now you'll appreciate my previous hospitality, Emma darling."

"Leave... me alone..." she gasped.

"As you wish." The Wind-Rider backed her way out of the cell, and the bars' clang reverberated through Emma's body as the door slammed shut. 

Emma sunk to the floor, breathless and hollow. She heard nothing but the low, rustling sweep of her captor's robes over the sound of her weeping.


	11. Harsh Light of Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dream. An escape. A rescue. Amends are made. Plots are schemed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter exhausted me, but I had fun with it. Yes, Ororo is a bitch in this, or more accurately, a beast. Get ready for a throwdown!

"Emma?"

She almost thought she was imagining things when she heard the high-pitched, faint mew, followed by low, rhythmic purring.

"Jenny?" She didn't recognize the sound of her own voice, it was so haggard and hoarse, too old for seventeen.

"Aye, sweet. I'm here with you."

"I'm so cold. I'm so lost." Emma lost track of time, counting the scratchy skittering of rat's paws in the dust. 

Her palms were raw from her attempts to work at the rusted lock and to feel around for a flaw in the cold stone walls. Emma spent hours pondering and puzzling how to get out. She screamed. She negotiated with the Wind-Rider until her vocal cords strained. She reached out with her mind, but found herself ignored, mute and helpless in the dark in every way.

She collapsed and wept in despair, and bitterly, Emma wondered what kind of bargain she would need to make for her freedom.

Jenny crept into her lap, nuzzling her, letting her whiskers tickle Emma's cheeks as she settled against her for warmth. Emma instinctively stroked her soft fur, hungry for the contact, and Jenny's paws kneaded her neck as she purred, and purred, and purred. Emma's rapid heartbeat gradually grew more even, matching the slow throb of the feline's. Jenny squinted up at her, content with the change in the young woman. "I won't leave you, dearest."

"I'm all alone. She despises me, Jenny. I've lost all hope."

"Mistress doesn't hate you at all."

"She must. She certainly still hates my father."

"Nay. She was frustrated with him, surely, Emma. He violated the sanctity of her home. She was bound to get her feathers ruffled. You know from firsthand experience that this isn't just any house. There are secrets that need protecting."

"Aye. You all seem bent on keeping those secrets from me. Forgive me for being a goose, but if you wish me to stay here, a kept pet, then I should have all the same privileges of the animals roaming around under her roof."

"A kept pet? Hardly." Jenny huffed and kneaded Emma's chest, stretching and yawning as Emma stroked her ears. "You underestimate your worth."

"I'm in a cage. I've estimated correctly, sweet." Jenny sighed and nudged her with her paw.

"She needs to trust you."

"Yet clearly, it doesn't matter that I cannot trust her."

Jenny mulled this. "There were others before you."

"Others. Did they end up here?"

"Typically, no."

"That doesn't comfort me."

"All of them lived to tell the tale, dear heart. But they were sworn to secrecy."

"I can't imagine why," Emma deadpanned.

"Mistress treated them well. She showered them generously with gifts. Every prospect who entered here was shown the greatest level hospitality she had to offer."

"She didn't drop them from the sky?"

"Not typically," Jenny told her dryly.

"Bad cat. Don't tease me." Jenny purred, continuing to knead Emma.

"She likes you."

"I wish the feeling were mutual."

"Could it be? Ever?"

"Jenny, I... I honestly don't think so."

"You're certain."

"Look around you. You tell me how certain I am." Emma tsked in disgust. "No captive likes their captor."

"Forgive me. I won't beg you to reconsider," Jenny told her soberly. She gave a very feline sigh and her eyes squinted nearly shut as Emma scratched her ears.

"Surely I'm not the first person to cross the threshold to keep your mistress company."

"Nay. There have been many who came before you. All of them fell short of her expectations." Emma felt that sense of only being given bits and pieces of the information that she sought.

"What does she expect?"

"Something genuine. And someone honest to a fault."

"I'm an open book."

"She would be hard-pressed to believe that of a woman who can read minds, herself."

"Not hers, for the most part."

"Really?" Jenny was intrigued. "You can't read her thoughts like you can with the rest of us?"

"I'm not even certain how I'm able to read yours, dear heart. Then again, I never had the reason to read any beastie's mind before."

"Pardon me," Jenny told her haughtily. "I'm hardly 'any beastie.'"

"Forgive my impertinence," Emma chuckled rustily. She dashed at her cheeks, hating how her cooling tears made her skin itch. "But your mistress' mind is closed to me. The only emotions I can read from her are anger and mistrust." Her sigh was heavy. "Was she always like this?"

"That's not something I'm at liberty to discuss," Jenny admitted.

"I see."

Jenny replied with a low huff, squinting up at Emma with irritated blue eyes. "They say cats are curious to a fault. You put me to shame, darling."

"Am I being too nosy?"

"Aye."

"Will you tell me what I need to know, anyway?"

"Aye. Yes, yes. Within my own discretion, of course." Jenny stretched and snuggled against her, smacking Emma's hand with her paw to make her continue scratching under her chin. "She wasn't always so dour, per se. Quite the contrary."

"I will admit... she has a rather... sick sense of humor."

"That much hasn't changed, bless her heart. When her family was still alive-"

"Her family?" Emma was surprised.

"You didn't think she just fell from the clouds one fine day, did you? Of course she has a family. Or she had one," Jenny corrected. "But Mistress was a different woman altogether until they died."

"Oh. I'm so sorry."

"It was rather tragic. They were killed by robbers who invaded the castle one night. Mistress was the only one spared."

"They wouldn't dare attack her, she would have torn them to shreds," Emma mused.

"They never saw her."

"Why not? Wasn't she here when they entered the castle?"

"Aye. But she was down here. Underground, well out of sight." Emma blanched.

"Oh, my heavens. Tell me, Jenny... was she... like she is now?"

"Aye." Jenny already sensed she had said too much, but Emma was bursting, giving her curiosity its full momentum. She hungered for answers that the feline wasn't sure she could give.

"Emma... please. Don't get ahead of yourself. Mistress... her family... they couldn't accept her the way she was."

"But-"

"I can't tell you anymore."

"Damn." Jenny nipped Emma's hand, making herself clear that she'd had enough of being caressed, and of being pumped for answers. Jenny dozed on Emma's lap soon enough, and Emma decided to let the matter rest for a while.

*

Her mind took Emma to a safe haven while she slept, plunging herself deep into her subconscious. Here, there was light and warmth, and she was fully in control.

She walked through the fortress confidently, calmly, completely at peace. Every window opened to sunlight and open ground. Every room was comfortable, featuring mementos of happy memories and visions of those who were dear to her. 

Emma heard strains of music playing, a complex melody rendered by flutes and violins. It as beautiful, bringing a smile to her lips. She found herself humming to it, and it lightened her steps, following it down a long corridor.

Emma smelled roses and wildflowers, and she felt a draft of fresh air sweep through the space around her, as though someone opened a window. The breeze stirred her hair, lifting it from her neck, but she didn't shiver. The music grew louder as she neared a tall oak door. She knocked, but no one answered her. Curious, indeed. She tried the knob, and it turned for her with little effort. She opened the door the merest crack and peered inside.

"Oh. My."

The music was uninhibited, as were the guests occupying the enormous room, a ballroom, if Emma wasn't mistaken. Sheer chiffon panels draped from the corners of the ceiling to meet an elaborate, beautiful crystal chandelier. Damask and velvet curtains and valances dressed the tall windows in lush blues and purples, coordinating with the upholstery of the gilded chairs and ottomans. A small four-piece orchestra played on the corner of the room, dressed in finer garb than any that Emma had ever seen, wearing silk waistcoats and black velvet breeches, and kid leather shoes with silver buckles. None of them looked as though they had ever worked a day in the field or in a barn, Emma thought enviously. They were well-practiced and dignified, but they were playing the jaunty piece with relish.

The room was packed to the rafters with guests, and Emma felt out of place, despite the fact that this was a room of her mind's making, and she assumed she was the hostess. She smelled the mouthwatering aromas of roast hens and beef, the astringent tang of dry wines, and the sweetness of custards and finger cakes. Her stomach growled, but she didn't know who to ask for permission to eat.

The guests swirled around her, rapt in their abandon of all except the celebration. Women chatted and gossiped, sipping spirits from goblets and dainty cups. The men boasted and leered, signing dance cards and sweeping giggling partners up from chaises for a fluid, waltzing turn around the floor. She felt disembodied, still out of place, and Emma gasped as a lady in an extravagant dress approached her, seeming to look right through her. "Excuse me... oh!" Before Emma could move out of her way, the woman walked right through her! Emma glanced after her, shocked.

"That didn't just happen... did it?" Emma stared down at herself, holding out her palms. Strangely enough, they were glowing faintly, and she could see the floor tiles and her own feet through her fingers. It was as though she were made of the same substance as light itself.

She didn't have time to ponder the impossibility. A bawdy, uninhibited laugh assailed her ears, startling her. Emma turned toward it, wondering who felt the need to draw so much attention to herself amidst this highbrow crowd. She wandered closer, wading through a flock of perfumed, elaborately coifed women. She noticed them preening and gesturing, flicking, lace-trimmed elegant fans, even though the room wasn't stuffy. She craned her head around them from the back of the crowd, until she had a brainstorm.

Emma gradually walked through each person, not stirring so much as a molecule of air around herself. She still had a sensory connection to her surroundings, sights, smells and sounds all completely intact. She just couldn't feel anything, which unnerved her.

She reached the nexus of everyone's attention, and her mouth went dry at the sight of a dark-skinned woman, taller, more elegant, and ten times more beautiful than anyone in the room. She was stunning, taking Emma's breath away.

Her voice held a lilt of amusement, and droll humor danced in her eyes, which were impossibly blue, the hue of the sky on a perfect day. Her skin - so unique! - was the color of cinnamon and smooth as velvet. Her smile was broad, revealing perfect, pearly white teeth. Her features were classic; her eyes were large, slanted, and rimmed in long lashes, her cheekbones were high and sharp, her nose long and straight, and her eyebrows held a natural arch. 

The most striking aspect of her appearance, outrivaling the opulence of her garments, was the long, thick, lustrous waves of white hair fastened back from her high, intelligent forehead. It reached down to her narrow waist and was dressed in strands of tiny pearls. Her gown cinched in at the waist, and the skirt fell in graceful folds down to the tops of her platinum satin slippers. The heart-shaped neckline plunged almost indecently, revealing the hills of her full, ripe breasts. The gown was lovingly crafted from a rich, midnight blue velvet, with a bodice piped in white satin, and the puffed sleeves ended at her elbows, emphasizing slender arms.

For Emma, time seemed to stop. Her heart pounded and the other sounds around her seemed to fade away as she watched this vision, listening to her speak, understanding why the crowd fawned over her. A huge bear of a man - that was the only way Emma could describe him, he seemed to lumber rather than walk, and his body was massive - dressed in livery offered her a goblet filled with red wine.

"Keep it flowing, Santo," she murmured, winking up at him. The long-suffering servant nodded and disappeared to do her bidding, while another man in a similar uniform appeared, bowing low. Emma was impressed by this one. His smile was enigmatic, and he had swarthy, tanned skin and eyes so dark they were black. His sable brown hair was clubbed back from his face and he possessed a fine physique.

"Mistress, your mother wishes to see you in the parlor before you open your gifts."

"Why can't she simply come down?" Emma was amused and appalled at the way she pouted with her full lips, dark as plums.

"She wishes to speak with you in private. In the library."

"Very well," she sighed dramatically. Her friends tittered as she stood and gave an exaggerated curtsy. "I shall return!" she announced before sweeping out. "My major domo is kidnapping me." She nodded to him. "Thank you, Manuel."

Santo. Manuel. Emma frowned, wondering why the names were familiar to her. She watched the object of her interest walk away. She didn't trip over the long gown, and the crowd parted for her, curtsying and bowing in her wake. Emma was curious about her mother, wondering who could have given birth to such a magnificent creature.

More than anything, however, she was just intrigued by her. Emma's feet carried her from the ball room, and she was almost sad to leave behind the strains of music and the revelry.

"Mother does remember that this is my birthday ball?" Emma noticed that her voice took on a slight edge, and she winced.

"She certainly does," Manuel assured her cheerfully. 

"I do hope she picked out something decent to wear, instead of those old black rags of hers. You'd think she was dressing for a funeral instead of the day that her only daughter comes into her own."

"Lady N'Dare is the picture of elegance, no matter what she wears, not unlike her daughter, no?" Manuel tried to pacify her, but Emma sensed his irritation, despite his fondness for his mistress.

"You're being too generous, Manuel."

"Mistress Ororo, might I make a suggestion?"

"You're allowed to make it, surely. That doesn't mean I plan to take it seriously." His dark eyes burned and he pinned her with a sardonic look.

"You're too kind." She chuckled and slapped his arm with her fan. "Go easy on your mother."

"I'll be the perfect lady, as always."

"Now, now, senorita, sheathe those claws."

"Yes, yes." She waved him away impatiently as they reached the library. Emma wondered why it looked familiar to her. Her mind was creating an atmosphere drawing from bits and snatches of things she had seen, places she'd been, but she wasn't certain she belonged there.

Manuel knocked on the door, and he opened it as a deep voice that belonged to someone older and female beckoned them inside. "Enter, daughter."

"You called for me, Mother?"

"Sit." She beckoned to the comfortable-looking chaise, and Ororo - Emma mentally rolled the name around on her tongue, deciding she liked it - obeyed, assuming correct posture and politely tucking her feet beneath her skirt. "I need to discuss your prospects with you, darling." Ororo wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"Ugh... Mother, please."

"Don't 'Mother, please' me. We've been over this before, and I get nothing from you but impudence and disrespect. Your father and I won't live forever."

"No. You will, just to vex me. I'll hear your voice in my ears every night for the rest of my life whenever I retire, telling me I need to find some prospects."

"Plenty of them have crossed our threshold, but you make little to no effort to consider them."

"I consider all of them a waste of time. I'm not ready to get married, Mother. I find the entire institution overrated."

"Do you? Do you find the prospect of providing your mother with grandchildren equally unnecessary? Or even continuing our bloodline over future generations?"

"Blah, blah, blah. Bloodlines. You'd think you were talking about horse flesh, Mother." Ororo waved away the thought with a slender hand. But her mother, a handsome woman of middle years, looked vexed. Piqued. She banged her fist on the escritoire, and Ororo had the decency to jump back.

"Listen to me. Listen closely. I'm tired of this. I'm tired of your profligate, carousing ways and bad behavior. You're not a child anymore. You're twenty-one years old, more than old enough to make a suitable match. Instead, you run loose with questionable acquaintances, and I've heard rumors..."

"Rumors. Please." Ororo snorted. "Rumors are just a nice name for things that are already common knowledge that people are too polite to admit."

"Common knowledge. It breaks my heart to know that my only daughter finds it amusing to shame me. You're a wanton. A harlot." Ororo's smile faded and she folded her hands in her lap, shrugging.

"Speak your mind, Mother. Don't mince any words on my behalf."

"Oh, but I won't. I see the way you flirt and cavort under my own roof. I know you've taken partners into your suite after hours. Sometimes more than one. Not all of your lady acquaintances are 'ladies' in the proper sense. You've had questionable relations with them, or so I've been given to understand. And you don't limit your activities to our home. Townsfolk speak of a white-haired noble woman who frequents the taverns and gaming hells. Your lack of discretion is impressive."

The blood drained from her daughter's face.

"I've turned a blind eye on your behavior long enough. I bade your father to stay out of this. I wanted to address this with you, without his interference. He's indulged you too much over the years, and I blame that, and my own compliance with his wishes, for the result. You're haughty, spoiled and indolent."

"Don't forget thoughtless. Careless. Inconsiderate. Improper." Ororo ticked off each damning word on her fingers. "Indecent. Indelicate."

"You mock me."

"No. I'm listening, Mother. I've always listened to you berate me, lecture me, and tut-tut over my wicked ways and shortcomings. I'm a horrible daughter. Terrible." Emma marveled at her deadpan expression but felt irony radiating from her. "Are we finished?"

"You won't sweep me under the rug. You will hear me out."

"I think I've heard enough. My guests are waiting."

"You've plied them with plenty of wine. They'll wait a few moments longer." Lady N'Dare reached into the desk drawer and removed a scroll. The red wax seal was already broken, and she unrolled the parchment, tapping it. "Prince Remy is interested in a meeting. I've arranged a luncheon for the first of the month."

"Oh, that's rich. Mother, he's not the one for me."

"You two haven't even met!"

"I don't need to meet him! He'd damaged goods. Anna threw him aside already." She spoke of one of her rivals, Anna Raven of Darkholme Downs, whom she kept uneasy, careful company with when she went to court.

"Then how about Silvercloud?"

"Jonathan Silvercloud? Don't make me laugh. He's maimed. I have no use for someone crippled." Her mother was aghast.

"He was a soldier. He served his kingdom proudly and protected his borders. He would make a fine husband. He's a man of sterling character."

"Next." N'Dare narrowed her eyes dangerously.

"Prince Warren?"

"Vapid. Too pretty." Warren Worthington was also a rake, more shameless than Ororo herself. Vainly, she mused that she didn't want to have to compete with her husband for potential partners. "You'd hate him, anyway, Mother."

"Manuel! Fetch me a tonic!" she called out. Manuel bowed and ducked out of the library, glad to get away from the tension between them.

"Mother... this won't work. You want me to keep up appearances. You simply want to shoo me down the aisle in a white dress with a perfect husband to please the rest of the world."

"And you simply wish to continue to embarrass your father and I and whore yourself about to the general public, free of any meaningful commitment or responsibility."

"I'm not made for it. For commitment. It's tedious, Mother. And so is this conversation. I have guests awaiting my return." Her mother drew herself up and nodded grimly.

"Then hurry back. Enjoy your party."

"You won't wish me a happy birthday?"

"Daughter," N'Dare said. She crossed the room and met her daughter where she stood. She took her soft hands in her own, leaned in and kissed her cheek. "This might well be your last happy birthday, if you don't change your ways." Ororo stiffened and tugged her hands free, and N'Dare swept past her from the library. "Manuel, bring my tonic up to my suite. I have a headache," she called out. Ororo heard his voice drift up from the stairs and sighed bitterly. 

Emma felt the swirling, conflicting emotions within her, anger and indignance warring with amusement and surprise. Emma, more than anything, felt appalled by her behavior. How could such a beautiful woman act in such an ugly manner toward her own mother? Emma pined for her own mother ever since her passing, mourning the loss of her affection and sage advice, her stories, her ladylike demeanor and gentle touch, her humor and decency. It boggled her mind that a daughter could treat her mother so poorly, take her so much for granted.

She watched the princess re-enter the ballroom, and the music was faster, this time, not the lilting waltz she heard before. The guests partook of the wine and sweets and began to lose their discretion. Dance cards were ignored, partners were stolen at random and dragged teasingly onto the floor. Graceful steps gave way to less practiced maneuvers, and Emma felt the heat rise up several notches in the room. 

She watched Ororo join the fray, swept up by a dashing, rakish man in a red waistcoat and tails, and she laughed like she hadn’t a care in the world. 

Emma knew she didn’t.

*

 

She didn't know how long she'd slept, lulled by the rhythmic rise and fall of Jenny's soft bulk against her chest. Emma woke with a start and a crick in her neck, dismayed to find that her situation hadn't changed. 

The dream made little sense to her as the final impressions faded from her mind. But why did it feel so real? Emma felt as though she were seeing it all through someone else’s eyes. 

She dragged herself back to the matter at hand. She was still trapped. She mulled what she had been told, taking stock of what little she knew about the Wind-Rider.

Her family had locked her up in this stinking hole. No wonder she was so bitter. Emma shuddered, wondering how long she had resided down here, in this space devoid of light and fresh air. The Wind-Rider seemed to crave open spaces, which made sense, given her enormous wings. Being trapped in a cell like this one was perhaps crueler than keeping a song bird in a cage.

So why, Emma wondered, was she so devoid of empathy? She knew how horrid it was to be trapped in the dark. How could she do the very same thing to her father, an elderly gentleman, who needed warmth and shelter on a miserable night? 

The cat had left out too much. Emma decided right then and there that she would need to dig for more information on her own, with more discretion. As if Jenny sensed her traitorous thoughts, she yawned and stretched, nudging Emma's chin with her forepaw.

"How did you get down here?"

"Through all of the ins and outs and tiny spaces that only cats can ease their way into, Emma dear. I know my way through the castle and can be quieter than a fly on the wall."

"I'm surprised the flies haven't begun speaking to me yet."

"Don't be silly. The flies can't speak here."

"Well, pardon my ignorance."

"Perhaps this once," a familiar, dulcet voice chittered at her, the accent unmistakably French. The tiny monkey tumbled into the corridor, dropping to the floor in front of Emma's cell.

"Oh! MARIE!"

"Hush! Don't shout," she chided, but the delicate held out her paw between the bars plaintively. "Are you all right, mamselle?"

"Well, how do you think I am?"

"Filthy. Desole, mamselle. I was afraid something dreadful like this would happen. You should never have run off with one of Mistress' mares."

"I realize that, now."

"Are you cold?"

"I can't feel my toes." Emma had stopped shivering once Jenny had lent her compact warmth, but it wasn't sufficient. 

"This won't do at all," Marie-Ange tsked. "Mistress will be furious with me when she finds out I have come down here with you."

"And you suppose she'll spare me her wrath, then?" Jenny deadpanned, flicking her tail as she crawled down from Emma's lap. "Don't be such a silly bint. Why'd you risk coming down here?"

"I couldn't sleep, knowing Mamselle was down here alone. It reeks horribly, no place for a lady. Even the mares in their stalls, sleeping amidst their own ploppings, have more dignity than the poor soul who ends up trapped here."

"That makes me feel ever so much better." Emma was growing irritated with the "sympathy" her guests were extending at this point. They didn't need to belabor the obvious, did they? "You don't have to stay, Marie-Ange, and neither do you." Jenny mewed.

"I don't plan to stay, mon ami." Marie leapt up and scaled the wall adjoining the cell, making no effort to join Emma inside. Emma heard her chittering, her small digits scrabbling over the stones. Suddenly, the monkey leapt back down to the floor, and she held up something shiny in triumph. "And neither should you."

"You minx!" Jenny meowed in alarm. "You didn't!"

"I most certainly did." Marie-Ange swung up onto the bars, finding purchase with one paw while she used the other to manipulate the small iron key in the lock. Emma watched in disbelief, hearing the small clinks and rattles against rusted metal, and she held her breath until the lock gave way. Marie leapt down and shoved against the bars with all of her might, barely budging it, but the door squealed open before Emma finally sprang to her feet.

"You wonderful, lovely, amazing little creature! I could kiss you!"

"It wouldn't hurt to stand on ceremony, this time, mamselle, since I have a better suggestion."

"Aye?"

"Oui. Run. Quickly, now."

"She'll skin us alive," Jenny reminded her friend, but both animals ran ahead of Emma, who found herself stumbling in the dark, not planning her escape, merely giving in to her feet's desire to move her out of this cramped space. She stumbled about, feeling along the damp walls, heart pounding in her chest. Emma was euphoric but terrified. She was free!

"I don't want anything to happen to you if I leave!"

"We don't want anything to happen to you if you stay," Jenny pointed out. "I just wish..."

"What?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Come along." They moved through the maze of corridors, and none of it looked familiar to Emma, which unnerved her. The beast's home was far too vast! Hope still sprang into her chest; she could make her way back to Chris, or even to Jean-Paul. There was still a chance to save her brother, and herself.

"This way," Marie ordered tersely. "This is the laundry chute. All you have to do is climb up, and you'll end up in the wash room. It adjoins the kitchen."

"She'll find me," Emma hissed. "What good will that do?"

"You can hide in the clothes until we tell you it's clear. Then you can make your way outside. Not to the stables, this time."

"No. That would hardly help me," Emma said bitterly. It frustrated her to have worked so hard before and to have gathered no ground, only ending up back where she started in the space of a day.

"Do you still have a mirror with you?" Jenny inquired. Emma brightened, reaching into the pocket of her skirt. She wanted to laugh out loud when she found the cold, hard object, wrapping her fingers tightly around it.

"Yes. Yes!"

"Then you'll make your way home," Marie-Ange confirmed. "We wish you well."

"Godspeed," Jenny added, but Emma felt sadness from both creatures, and she was torn. Pangs of guilt over the risk they took in angering their mistress nagged her, twisting her gut. But Emma was terrified at the thought of remaining a prisoner, and she had no idea how long the Wind-Rider planned to keep her there. 

Her cell smelled of sickness and death. Her skin crawled.

"I'm sorry," Emma blurted out. "I'm so sorry. I don't know why you need me here... I know there are things you don't want me to know-"

"Don't ponder them. I'd like to say, 'Remember us fondly,' Emma, but I know that isn't likely at all. It would actually be best if you struck us from your mind completely.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! I could never forget you.”

“I mean it. When you leave here, don’t look back.”

“Jenny-”

“This won’t be the first time that things didn’t work out. It won’t be the last,” Jenny said flatly. But Emma felt a wrongness in what she said, feeling the cat’s doubts and a cloud of despair that settled over her. 

“You feel it will be the last. Don’t you. You’re giving up hope,” Emma accused.

“Hope only exists in a heart where it’s allowed to grow.” Jenny ran ahead of Emma too quickly to allow her to press her for more answers.

Emma found the laundry chute. It was cramped and darker than the corridor, triggering her panic again, but she crawled up, up, seeking out any sliver of light or draft of fresh air. All she heard was her rapid pulse and the creak of wood beneath her hands and knees. She reached the tiny door ahead of her, wanting to laugh aloud with relief, but she couldn’t allow herself to make even the merest sound as she pushed her way through. She breathed in the musty scent of the laundry room in shallow draughts, shivering inside the chilly space.

Emma peered around, searching with her mind for any trace of the others’ thoughts. She found traces of their voices throughout the estate, but they were all coming from the second and third stories, too far away to hear or smell her presence. She moved quickly, grateful that her cloak was still hanging on the peg. Emma wasn’t worried about the rest of her belongings, since she’d brought along so few. She made her way to the back door of the kitchen and stole outside on light, quick feet. She shivered, victim to the cold gusts of wind that stole beneath her skirt and whipped her hair off her neck.

Emma ran, mindless of her path, only seeking to put distance between herself and her captor. Her hostess, she corrected herself bitterly. Emma made her way into the deep woods, frustrated that very little of it looked familiar. The moon was partially obscured by clouds, so her way was poorly lit. Emma reached into her pocket for the mirror, and she was relieved to see it begin to glow, surface swirling as it sensed her desire and destination.

“Take me home to Adrienne and Cordelia,” she bade it, “and quickly.” The mirror glowed more brightly, compensating for the encroaching darkness. Emma smelled a hint of rain on the air, and dimly she wondered if it was a natural storm approaching, or if it was the Wind-Rider’s handiwork.

She wouldn’t stay to find out.

*

The large gray wolf’s haunting silver eyes watched the blonde human curiously, then with growing interest. She was young. Ripe. Supple.

Prey.

The creature huffed and growled low in its throat, and the three juvenile males surrounding it pricked up their heads, scenting the air. Their tails wagged and they followed their leader from the den, slinking through the brush.

They were hungry and lean, but their coats had thickened gradually with the shift to autumn. Small game was growing more scarce as the forest’s creatures fortified their nests and found hollow logs and other dens to hole up for the harsher climes. The young adult female was a tempting prospect; they could feed off the scraps for two days, maybe three.

They padded after her softly, covertly, staying downwind and out of sight. She was so absorbed in what she was doing, wending an uneven, awkward path through the trees, that she didn't notice their progress toward her. The alpha licked his lips in anticipation.

The kill would be quick and neat.

*

 

Ororo sensed a wrongness within her house. It woke her from a troubled sleep. She climbed down from her perch and rattled her wings, stretching them. She crossed the room, ignoring the chill in the room resulting from the dying embers in her hearth. Ororo slept nude, shunning the need for garments when she wasn't affected by intense cold. She shook herself, scratching the myriad places on her body that itched thanks to her thick coat of fur.

She felt what she could only describe as a gap, an emptiness. The darkness around her seemed to whisper to her, encroaching upon her, filling her with uncharacteristic dread.

She'd learned not to fear the darkness anymore, or the loneliness. Rather, she embraced them, keeping them close, easy bedfellows. Those first few days after she was cursed, she'd nearly gone out of her mind... Memories of the cage swamped her in a mad rush. Pain. Anguish. The scrape of rusted metal sliding across the floor. Cool shackles clapped around her wrists. Despair. Hatred.

Alone.

The thoughts rushed at her, unchecked for several seconds, and Ororo growled, clawing at her temples in an attempt to tear them out. "No," she rasped. "NO! Not now!" She drew uneven, harsh gusts of air into her lungs through her flaring nostrils, growing dizzy from the effort. "Won't get the best of me," she insisted. 

"Mistress?" She smelled Manuel and heard him scratching at her door. She snarled at him to give her a moment while she rummaged for her black robe, an unadorned shift that tied at her waist.

"What is it?" she roared.

"I'm sorry to wake you," he began. He wisely waited for her to open the door to him, and he cowered when he saw her fit of pique. Her eyes were narrow, dangerous slits. "I see I disturbed your beauty sleep."

"Imp. And I was already awake."

"Mistress... there's been a slight, er, mishap."

"A mishap." She slapped her forehead and sighed heavily. "Is one of my mares loose again?"

"No, senorita."

"Robbers in the garden?" She welcomed the opportunity to tear them to shreds, or at the very least, scare them out of ten years of life.

"Is anyone under my roof giving birth to a litter? Is anything on fire?"

"Mistress..."

"Wait." She didn't like his demeanor. He was entirely too fearful, certainly nothing new in their exchanges, but there was something about his hesitant manner, his wince and pained tone that vexed her. "Has something of mine been lost?"

"S-si, Mistress."

"Something... valuable?"

"Regrettably. Something most... precious. I-i-irre-p-p-placeable."

"I see. And how did this... mishap... happen, pray tell?"

"Well, I'm not certain as to 'how,' per se. Just when."

"WHEN?"

"Roughly an hour ago. Give or take."

"You went down there. Under the house," she pressed.

"Si. Er, I was concerned. I was afraid that the senorita was cold."

"That was something you felt you could help her with? You wished to comfort her?" Ororo deadpanned. She was seething, however, and it was all she could do not to bowl him down the stairs with a swift kick.

"She isn't there," he finished. "Her scent is growing cold."

"That explains it," she muttered under her breath. There. That was what was missing, Emma's presence in her mind, or at any rate, hanging on the fringes of it.

"How can I assist you?"

"Get out. Leave me be."

"Oh. Of course." He hesitated, nose twitching.

"OUT."

"Si!" He scurried away, leaving her fuming.

Ororo growled, snarling with more intensity until her voice reached a full roar that resonated through the rafters and threatened to shatter every glass and ceramic trinket in the suite. Anger fueled her, surging through her body and making her hair stand on end. She flung open the curtains and shutters and dashed up onto the sill. The wind whipped her hair about and ruffled her feathers. Emma couldn't have gotten so far away that she couldn't catch up to her.

It hit her in that moment that she didn't know what to do with Emma once she found her. Ororo was flummoxed.

Build a stronger cage? Chain her up to the wall? Ororo mulled that, excitement humming in her belly. The thought appealed to her, particularly when she remembered how tempting Emma looked during her bath.

She shook herself. No, no. Stay focused.

She leapt from the sill, flinging herself into the bitter night. Moonlight limned her feathers and white hair, and the wind tore the sounds of her growls from her throat, muffling them.

She flew over roughly an acre before her eagle-sharp eyes picked up a small flash of light. She began to descend, and she gradually picked out a flurry of movement. Someone was running below her, winking in and out of the trees.

*

Emma was freezing, heartily wishing that she had worn an additional coat beneath the cloak. The air felt damp, and a faint drizzle began to mist her cheeks. She blew on her hands to warm them and did her best to keep moving. Her legs burned from the effort, but she kept running, knowing that any misstep or delay would land her back in the cage, or worse.

Or worse.

She hated feeling so unsheltered and vulnerable. She hated the Wind-Rider for forcing these circumstances upon her. Emma resented her father for being so stubborn and hell-bent on finding his fortune once again, for being desperate enough to bargain her away like a length of silk or a jar of spice. She was a simple farm girl. She didn't belong cooped up in a castle, let alone a cell. 

Emma felt a strange chill sweep over her that went beyond mere cold. She was being watched. 

"Oh, dear," she murmured, clutching the hood of her cloak more closely around her head. She mirror sang at her, and it showed her the next bend in the path, making her wonder why it wasn't beckoning her toward the cave nestled in an outcropping of rock. It was tempting to huddle inside until the weather settled down, but she had the feeling that wasn't her best option.

It was best to just trust the mirror. It hadn't failed her before.

*

 

The wolves whuffled and panted, closing in on her softly and licking their chops. Close. So close.

She smelled delicious.

*

 

A flock of sparrows chittered and took flight. Their rustle of wings startled her, and Emma flung up her arms over her head instinctively. Emma wasn't fond of birds, hating how destructive they could be to crops, devouring grains and freshly sown seed and corn as soon as she could plant it. Their only virtue was that their droppings fertilized those same crops, but it wasn't a share-and-share-alike relationship.

"Go away, little monsters," she hissed under her breath. She stopped, panting raggedly. Emma leaned against the trunk of a large oak, wondering how far she could make it. The village seemed too far away, and home was never so precious, or more appreciated than now, when she stood so close to losing it.

A bone-chilling growl made her hold her breath and freeze on the spot. Emma's blue eyes widened and she shivered, not wanting to know what could make that sound, or why it sounded so close. She turned slowly, not wanting to make any sudden moves.

Four pairs of gleaming silver eyes pinned her, sizing her up. And they were hungry...

*

 

The shining object that had caught Ororo's attention stopped glowing. She cursed over the loss of her beacon, but her eyes adjusted to the darkness and lack of adequate moonlight the lower she flew. There. She caught the familiar scent of young female flesh on the wind, and Ororo knew she was going in the right direction.

She sniffed again and growled. There were other creatures nearby whose scents were confusing her, mingling with Emma's. Beasts. Lupine. She catalogued the characteristics that she recognized, weighing her chances if she had to confront them. Males. Young, probably juveniles. 

"They're not mine," she realized, and a frisson of unease ceased her. "This isn't good."

Her wings beat the air, and Ororo raced the wind, flying hell for leather toward her prized possession.

No one stole what was hers. More accurately, no one devoured it but her. Her heart pounded and Ororo tasted fear on her lips, acrid and bitter.

*

"N-nice... doggies," Emma murmured, hoping to placate them. They were unfamiliar beasts, and she prayed that she didn't look threatening. "Look, see? Nice Emma. Nice wolfies." One of them yipped as they made their way out of the shadows. "Oh, dear. Please. Can't we talk about this?" Their only response was to bark and growl. The largest of the three scrunched up its muzzle and snarled, bearing wicked, ivory teeth. Its black-rimmed eyes swallowed her up. Emma felt dangerously close to wetting herself.

They weren't like Rahne and Dani. They can't talk! Her mind raced with possible solutions, wondering how she could drive them away, or at the very least, reason with them. "I'm not very tasty," she whimpered. She reached out with her mind, trying to touch their thoughts.

Nothing. At best, she could read their emotions, but there were no coherent thoughts, no way of exerting her influence over them. They advanced on her. Emma scrambled back against the tree, not wanting them to have access to her back. Her blood pressure and adrenaline spiked and she felt dizzy, unable to breathe. Emma's tears streaked down her cheeks, freezing against her skin. "Please, Lord. Help me."

And for once, he heard her. And he helped her in a way she never expected.

Emma's blue eyes gleamed in the darkness, filling with an odd, glittering silver light. The wolves' hackles rose, and they chafed at the charged air surrounding their prey. Something didn't seem right.

Emma's fingers gripped the bark of the tree, digging into it. Her nails tore splinters of it up, all the way down to the bare, raw wood. She was too scared to scream.

*

 

Ororo struck like an eagle, swooping down silently, her taloned fingers extended. She caught the first wolf by the scruff of its neck and flung it away, hurling it into a tall pine. It bounced off the trunk and whined, reeling with the pain of several broken ribs and a deep gash in its neck. It yelped and shied away as the interloper attacked the members of its pack, ruining his chances of dinner.

The creature before them was no wolf, yet not human. She was bigger, still female, and she had an odd musk that they had never encountered before. Their senses were confused as they tried to sort out the reptilian, leonine and avian influences in her make-up. She roared at them, and the remaining three wolves bayed and growled back, asserting their dominance.

She landed and stood her ground, opening up her wings to their full span. Emma gasped as it fully dawned on her what she was seeing.

So she wasn't free. Ororo had followed her. She was doomed, bound to be imprisoned forever. Angry defiance sprang into Emma's spine. "Get away from me!" she demanded.

"So you can get eaten? Will you give me no end of trouble this night?" Ororo didn't meet Emma's eyes, too distracted by the creatures before her that growled and gnashed their teeth, hackles raised.

"I don't belong to you!" Emma railed.

"You're missing the point! Wolves? You don't see the wolves?" Ororo accused as the rangy black one charged them, desperate for a first bite of either one of them.

"I'm not going back with you!"

"There won't be enough of you to go back with me if you don't. SHUT. UP." Ororo lurched back as the wolf leapt at her, pouncing squarely against her chest. Its maw slavered and gaped at her, set to cease her throat. It's head snapped and worried back and forth, and Ororo roared as her fist lodged itself between its teeth. She wrenched her hand free and clouted it sharply in the muzzle. The other two wolves, emboldened by the struggle before them, joined the fray initially, meaning to take down the stronger one, first, and then feast on the other. They would eat well tonight.

Pain lanced through Ororo's wing, and she beat it furiously to dislodge the wolf who clamped its jaws around the cartilage and pinions. The other charged her, huffing as it clawed her, tearing a burning path down her side. Ororo's roars ululated and changed into hoarse screams, and Emma had never heard such an inhuman, haunting sound. Her blood curdled and she felt sick. 

Ororo thrashed the wolf to the ground, neatly forcing it onto its back. She bared her teeth and lunged for its throat, the very method the beast planned to take her down with. It yelped and whined, legs flailing and beating the air. She ignored its claws and closed her jaws more firmly around its neck, growling at the sizzle of its foul blood as it pooled around her teeth. She was revulsed, unable to stand it, and she rose up indignantly, giving the beast a kick that sent it rolling into the brush. 

The remaining two considered their odds, deciding that a joint approach would work the best. Both of them lunged at her, tearing at whatever limb they caught first. Ororo screeched as her wing was once again seized and bent until she heard fragments of cartilage and marrow snap. Iron jaws snapped around Ororo's forearm, and she felt its hot breath and sharp teeth pierce her flesh.

This prey wasn't as tempting as the first, but it was certainly tasty, reminiscent of fowl, and the wolf agitated her limb, trying to tear it free. It danced on its hind legs, parrying and pushing at her, driven to take her down.

"NO." Emma read Ororo's anger, how appalled she was at the lengths she had to go to in order to protect her. She felt her revulsion... at herself. She hated herself. Emma didn't know how to react to this revelation.

The woman couldn't face this beastly side of herself, being reduced to behaving like an animal. It went against her sense of dignity. It was a graceless state, shameful and demeaning, and the Wind-Rider was on the brink of despair. 

All I have to do is let them take me, and end it. My suffering will be over...

"Oh, no you don't!" Emma cried. The energy around her grew charged again, and she felt a tingle run through her body that gave her goosebumps. It thrummed through her, making every molecule spark and burn. 

Her skin caught the moonlight, holding it captive, and Emma began to glow. She cried out as the light, and heat, invaded her. Her awareness of everything around her changed. The wind no longer bit into her flesh. She no longer felt the ache of her throbbing feet and burning lungs.

The wolves reared back, and Ororo shook them free, cursing and growling, but she was distracted critically by a flash of light off to her left. She confronted it and gasped, shielding her slate-gray eyes from the bluish white light that threatened to blind her.

"Oh, my," Emma gasped. She held up her hands, inspecting them. They weren't her hands anymore; they weren't even flesh. Her skin glittered up at her, a riot of fractals and prisms of light, more brilliant than a gem stone.

Like a diamond.

Emma grew dizzy, but adrenaline drove her movements, manipulating her into action. She reached for one of their lupine attackers, not caring about its gnashing teeth. She gripped it by the scruff of its neck, no mean feat then the girth of its neck was wider than her head, and Emma flung the beast away. Its bulk sailed through the air, crashing against a large rock. The beast collapsed, lifting its head one last, desperate time before it breathed no more. 

His brother turned on Emma, no longer holding back or treating her like a weaker opponent, but Emma stood her ground, not falling back when it leapt up at her and planted its forepaws on her shoulders. She ignored its snapping teeth, grasped its legs and twisted them until they snapped. The beast howled pitifully, and she shoved it away, satisfied when it dragged itself away, yelping pitifully. Emma's breathing was harsh, unable to keep up with her heartbeat. The glow dancing over her body grew in intensity as she tried to compose herself. She stared down at herself again, and Emma noticed that it wasn't just her flesh that had transformed. Even her clothing glittered, and it was rock-hard.

"What was the meaning of that?" she heard a forgotten voice demand behind her.

"Pardon?"

"How long... have you been able to do this?"

"I... well... never."

"Never." Emma slowly faced the Wind-Rider, wishing she didn't have to confront her or meet her judgment. "You can read minds."

"I thought I made myself clear in that regard."

"But not in this one," the beast reminded her gravely, nodding at her body. "Except for your appearance. I can see right through you."

"Oh, dear." Emma realized she was right. "This won't do at all."

The Wind-Rider's only reply was to lunge at her. Emma yelped as two large, furry hands fastened themselves around her throat. "DON'T!"

"No one keeps secrets from me under my own roof!"

"This... didn't happen...under your roof!" Emma rasped as she fought with her, but the Wind-Rider drove her back against the sturdy oak that Emma had previously clung to, knocking loose more of its abused bark.

"Deceiver!"

"MONSTER!" Emma screamed, and rage squeezed her heart. She resented this woman, if she could indeed call her that, so much. She tasted bile and metal as she gave her anger its head, welcoming the release of her inhibitions. Emma wasn't going to plead with her anymore for mercy or permission.

Her hand flew out in a smooth arc, and Ororo saw prisms of light when Emma's palm found her jaw. She barreled backwards through the air, wind rustling through her tortured feathers as she sailed through more protruding tree branches than she could count. Each of them slapped her, adding insult to injury and leaving her hair hopelessly tangled and littered with leaves and needles.

She landed with a miserable thud, feeling as though she'd fallen beneath a carriage's wheels. "Ow..."

All right, then. Perhaps she should have expected that.

She laid there for a few seconds, incredulous and reeling. A diamond. The merchant's daughter, a mere slip of a farm girl, was a diamond. Oh, it was rich. Ororo would have laughed if it didn't make her feel like monkeys were stabbing her innards with hot pokers.

Emma's chest heaved. She felt horrified, yet exhilarated. She was strong. Very strong. Wait...

"Wind-Rider?" she called out, realizing what she had done. "Oh, dear. I didn't mean... wait. I did, but, you forced me..." Emma reasoned with herself and with her mistress as she hurried forward, rage flagging and draining from her, but she still felt wary of her. She hesitated, pausing for a moment, then followed the path of the Wind-Rider's less than elegant landing.

She didn't notice that her body wasn't glowing anymore. She ignored the feel of the long grasses brushing against her ankles, the lumpy stones beneath her too-thin soles. The wind bit into her again, whipping her long blonde hair.

Ororo struggled to remain conscious, and it hurt to inhale; she wondered if she'd broken a rib or two. She smelled Emma's approach and heard her light steps, but she wasn't ready to move yet. 

She only opened her eyes when she felt gossamer-light hair brushing against her face. She stared up into Emma's clear blue eyes, which were limpid with tears. Her skin... her fair, smooth skin... was blotchy and wan, now, no longer glowing. Ororo sighed, almost bereft at the change. For mere minutes, she had been fearsome, awesome, and more beautiful than ever.

Now she was just Emma Frost, scared little farm girl, and she was staring down at her with pity. "Don't lock me up again."

"Shouldn't you be running away right about now?" Ororo coughed, and the wracking pain felt like knives. 

Before Emma could reply, a low, sinister growl cut through the darkness. Ororo's pupils dilated and all of her senses went on alert. Her body stiffened, every muscle bunching and coiling with an untapped reserve of energy. Emma cried out as Ororo rolled upright, knocking her aside, and the creature's wings snapped open, shielding Emma from the attack of the gray wolf.

The hunter leapt up, aiming for the Wind-Rider's throat. They struggled, locked in a savage waltz as the wind buffeted them, stirred up by one beast's rage. Ororo was weakened but determined. They fought, and she felt the warm stickiness of her own blood dribbling down to her chest from the puncture wounds in her neck. The wolf huffed and snarled, triumphant in its drive to taste her, and eventually, to consume her.

He brought her down, and they rolled, limbs clashing and flailing. Ororo's talons dug into its neck and closed around its muzzle, but she was blacking out from the pressure around her windpipe.

She saw a flash of movement above her and heard a sickening thud. The jaws around her throat weakened and lost their grip, and she felt one last gust of breath bathe her flesh. The wolf's body collapsed across her chest, and Ororo opened her eyes, staring up at the stars that began to peek out from behind inky charcoal clouds.

Emma stood weeping over her, and she threw aside the large rock before she reached for her.

Ororo moaned, fighting to keep her eyes open, but the darkness consumed her.


	12. Shadow of a Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New revelations come to light about Emma's mistress. Will she try to run again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read my stuff in my other fandoms, then sorry. I suck. I've been neglecting those, too. This story has aged so much waiting for me to update it.
> 
> To my credit, both of these chicks settle down a little and act a little less bitchy going forward. Had to make SOME progress... *shrugs*

_SANTO!_

Emma concentrated fully on her surroundings, on her awareness of the psychic landscape that was within her range of reach.

She felt the cool, leaden weight of the creature sprawled over her lap, silent and disturbingly inert. Emma's legs had gone numb from her uncomfortable repose in the dirt as she tried to prop up and revive the Wind-Rider. Her tormentor.

Emma's skin was riddled with scratches and streaked with dirt. Her dress and cloak were both torn and she shivered from the drafts that continuously crept beneath her skirts, sleeves and collar. Her teeth chattered as she tried to rouse her, but the woman in her lap didn't stir. Emma shook her shoulder, being mindful of her wounds. Logic warred with concern; Emma hadn't forgotten that she ended up here as a result of the Wind-Rider's previous cruelty.

But Emma's finer instincts rooted her to the spot, negating the more sensible option of running for her life. Her head throbbed, something she blamed on the brisk climes and her ordeal, but she didn't realize how much strain she placed on her physical and psychic resources during her transformation. Every cell in her body was spent; exhaustion made her limbs feel heavy, and Emma craved a warm, soft feather bed beside a crackling hearth.

That made it even more crucial that she had to get the two of them safely to shelter. She clung to the Wind-Rider, even though the gesture flew in the face of common sense, and Emma mustered the last of her strength with her psychic call.

_SANTO! SANTOOOOO!! I NEED YOU! SHE'S HURT!_

Inky clouds blocked out the moon, gradually enveloping them in total darkness.

*

 

Ororo despised the darkness.

As a small child, she found herself locked in the cellar for an hour as punishment for dumping ink on Anna's dress during a squabble. N'Dare dragged her by the arm from the luncheon in the garden, fuming the entire way. Ororo's slippers scuffed against the marble floors as she tried to pull away from her mother's grasp.

"She started it! I hate her," Ororo cried. Her mother's lips thinned, making her expression mulish and hard.

"We don't hate. It's unkind, and you're the hostess. It's up to you to be gracious, not engage in arguments with your friends."

"It's MY party! She has to do what I say!" Ororo screeched, stomping her little foot and jerking her elbow from N'Dare's grasp. She twisted away, but N'Dare caught her before she could get far. Ororo found herself spun around and slapped sharply for her troubles. Her cheek stung, and tears promptly welled up in her blue eyes.

"If you can't be ladylike and behave properly in front of company, then you leave me no choice. You can spend the rest of the party by yourself. No one will play with you, and you can't show off or make a scene. I won't tolerate that kind of undignified, beastly behavior in my own daughter."

"MAMA! NO!" N'Dare struggled with her as they approached the cellar door. It was like a tug of war for N'Dare as she unlocked the heavy door and pulled her daughter inside; Ororo was tall and limber for her age, and she put up an admirable fight. In the end, her mother's will wouldn't be denied.

_SLAP!_ Ororo screeched, holding her reddened cheek as she sank to the floor, a puddle of ruffles, satin and flowing curls. It was a shame; N'Dare marveled at how such a lovely girl, exquisitely dressed, perfectly formed, could act so ugly.

"This is where you will stay until I let you out. You've disgraced me, and yourself." N'Dare sighed, feeling guilty but resigned. She swept out of the cellar, and Ororo wept at the sound of the key turning in the lock.

She alternated between screaming, sobbing, shouting epithets and promises of future improvement in her behavior until her voice grew hoarse. But no one came running for her, and she began to feel deserted and unloved.

To a six-year-old, five minutes felt like five days, so the hour was torture, being cramped and stifled for so long with nothing but the sound of her own voice. She muttered under her breath, bemoaning her fate.

"Not fair. It's not fair. She doesn't love me, and it's all Anna's fault," she sulked as she tugged at a ruffle on her sleeve cuff, unraveling a long, pink thread with her buffed pink nails. "Mama's mean. Mean, mean, mean." She sniffled miserably, scrubbing stale tears away with the back of her hand. "She hates me."

She grew silent, and Ororo felt her heart begin to pound. All she could hear was the sound of her own breathing, and it was an odd sensation. It was unnerving to be in such tight, close quarters with almost no light. The slivers of illumination that crept between the cracks around the door were the only things fighting back the shadows that felt like they wanted to devour her.

Ororo's imagination painted ghastly creatures with gaping maws of razor-sharp teeth, children's beasties that lurked most commonly beneath the bed or behind the door of her armoire. Nanny's stories came back to haunt her, of naughty little girls who left the window curtains open at night and stayed up too late, only to be stolen away by goblins who would throw them into the supper pot. She clenched her eyes shut and shielded her face behind her long mass of hair, kicking her feet against the visions. "Let me go," she whimpered.

She was alone in the darkness. She was deserted...helpless.

She yelped with relief and surprise as the door hinge creaked, and her mother entered the cellar, staring down at her warily. Ororo leapt up from the floor and ran at her, launching herself at her mother's waist, where she clung like a leech. "Oof!" N'Dare exclaimed, and her hand drifted down to her daughter's snowy head, gingerly stroking it.

"Don't leave me alone."

"Tell me you're sorry," her mother murmured.

"M'sorry." More tears rolled down her cheeks, soaking N'Dare's skirt. She heard her mother's sigh and felt her hesitant embrace. "Can we go now, please?"

That was the compliance N'Dare wanted to hear; Ororo had learned her lesson. She eventually pried herself loose from her grip and led her by the hand into the brightly lit kitchen. She called for Noelle, her petite, chestnut-haired lady's maid, and she sent Ororo with her to get cleaned up. Noelle was surprised by Ororo's unusual silence as she helped her out of her soiled gown. Ororo sat wearing her simple shift, hands folded in her lap while Noelle brushed her hair. Her little face was miserable, and Noelle's heart went out to her, even though she knew the child had been naughty. She would never allow her own daughter, Marie-Ange, to get away with such frequent shenanigans and disrespect. But she held her tongue, since it wasn't place to get involved with how another woman chose to raise her child.

Even if that child was a vain, spoiled princess in line to inherit a vast estate and more riches than she could ever spend. Noelle sighed. N'Dare had her work cut out for her. Noelle saw a future of unhappiness for the sulking child pouting at her own reflection in the vanity mirror as she wove neat plaits in her soft hair.

*

 

Emma's psionic voice carried far and wide, reaching everyone within a radius of roughly ten kilometers. It was a mournful, desperate sound, chilling the hearts of all who heard it. Women in the nearby villages paused in mundane chores of bathing their children or cleaning up the dinner table and clutched their temples, wincing in pain. Men huddled in taverns spat out their half-finished drinks or woke from a sound sleep, wondering why they felt such heavy unease and unexplainable fear.

Christian stirred in his cot, then jerked awake, bolting upright. His skin felt soaked in sweat, despite the meager excuse for a blanket the prison guards had provided him with.

"Santo," he whispered, trying the foreign name on his tongue. He frowned; why had that suddenly come to him? Then Christian doubled over from a sharp, lancing pain in his skull, digging his nails into his scalp to tear it out.

Santo! There it was again, but this time, it was the voice that gripped him, immediately familiar and rife with fear.

"Emma!" he hissed. "God, please help her."

There was something horribly wrong with his sister. Christian leapt from his cot and looked around his tiny cell, and his eyes landed on a small tin cup. He dove for it and hurried to the iron bars penning him in. Christian began to bang and rattle the cup against the bars, and he cried out hoarsely to the guards, heedless of the late hour.

"LET ME OUT! There's an emergency! I need to help my sister! Let me out, NOW!"

*

Jean-Paul clenched his eyes shut and groaned from the onslaught of stabbing pains in his temples. The sound grew into a loud, wrenching growl that woke his sister from a sound sleep.

"What's wrong?" Aurora demanded as she ran to him. Jean-Paul felt the bed sink slightly as she sat beside him and tenderly rubbed his back. "What happened? Why did you cry out like that?"

"Hurts. My head. Like someone hit me with a hammer."

"I can fix you a potion, or some wine?" she suggested helpfully.

"No. That won't work. It's... hard to describe. I feel like... someone just barged into my brain without permission. And I heard someone shouting."

"You don't know who?" Aurora's dark brows drew together over puzzled blue eyes, marring her pretty face.

"A woman. And... she sounded so familiar. And scared, Aurora."

"Now I'm worried," she told him. "It might have just been a bad dream. You're sure you don't want a tonic? Or a cool cloth for your head?"

"I'll be fine, I think." But Jean-Paul was shaken, and an odd chill swept over his skin. There was something unsettling about the voice in his mind, something familiar about it...

"Emma."

"What?" 

"Aurora, I think it was Emma!"

"You're certain? We haven't seen her in ages, Jean-Paul."

"It doesn't matter. She's special, remember?"

"Don't be a simpleton. As if I'd forget that," Aurora sniffed.

"Chris told me before that she can communicate with him even when they aren't in the same room."

"You said she was gone, that she was taken away from their home, Jean-Paul."

"But maybe not so far away that we can't reach her, or that Chris can't."

"He can't." Aurora's voice was bitter, and she hugged herself and avoided his eyes. Jean-Paul growled under his breath.

"Don't make it sound so bleak. He'll be all right. We'll get him out. If you love him, and I know you love him, sister, then have hope for him."

"I pray for him," she snapped. "I've prayed every waking minute. Everything feels wrong without him here, Jean-Paul. He should be over in that chair, warming up by the fire, or in the kitchen, singing one of those awful songs of his while I'm making tea, or right here, in this bed-" Her voice cut off abruptly with a choke, and Jean-Paul put his plan to lecture her aside. He tugged her into his strong embrace and let her break down, stroking her long black hair. It was hard not to give in to her grief, something he shared so keenly already, but Jean-Paul had to remain strong for her, strong for them both.

The man they loved was in prison, and his sister was likely now in danger.

*

 

"They came this way," Santo growled.

"I know that, you big lummox," Rahne snarled back as she tracked Emma's scent. Her lips peeled back from her teeth as she found the faint trail and followed it. Dani kept pace with her mate as they hurried through the brush. It was difficult to get a clear picture of where Emma was, since none of them were capable of holding one of the castle's enchanted mirrors.

Santo's blood ran cold the moment he heard Emma's psychic call, crying out his name so desperately, and he automatically feared the worst. Moreover, if his mistress hadn't come back yet, there had to be something wrong. Several hours had gone by since she launched herself from her suite's window. This didn't look good. The Wind-Rider's servants knew her comings and goings like clockwork, with rare exceptions, such as when she had depressive episodes that would drive her out of the house, often for hours, to immerse herself in the elements.

Her return home with Jean-Paul was unexpected, and Santo hoped for a moment that he might prove to be an end to the curse that bound them all, if it turned out that Emma Frost wasn't their salvation. But nothing came of his sojourn with them except an equally abrupt departure on black-tipped wings.

He feared them would never find them, until Rahne and Dani barked in alarm. Up ahead, Santo saw the bulky forms of three dead wolves, their bodies bloody and mangled. Santo recognized his mistress' handiwork easily enough, but his blood ran cold as he smelled blood that didn't belong to the wolves. Emma and Ororo's scents were all over the clearing.

"There," Dani growled, bristling when she peered through the copse of trees nearby and spotted the silhouette of a woman crouching down and cradling something in her lap. The wolves bolted for the tall pines, and the scent of blood almost gagged them, overwhelming their sharp senses. Her own blood ran cold as the wind shifted, blowing the clouds back where they obscured the moonlight.

Emma's blonde hair was in disarray, her long braid hopelessly unraveled and tangled, and her face and hands were covered in scratches. Blood drenched her cloak and skirts, but more horrifying was the way that the Wind-Rider laid across her lap, completely still, her gown bloody and riddled with tears. Blood flowed freely from a wound in her neck.

"MISTRESS!" Santo roared.

"No," Rahne huffed. "Emma, darling, what happened?"

"The wolves. They attacked us. I killed the last one," she said, and she felt Rahne and Dani bristle, but they didn't chide her for it, knowing the young woman had no choice.

"It's cold out. The beasties get more desperate when they have to go out and forage for food," Dani agreed. "We're very lucky to have Mistress to look out for us."

"She's so badly hurt," Emma sobbed miserably. "Help me!"

"Take off your underskirt," Santo ordered bluntly. "Tear it up. Make long strips."

"Why?"

"Just do it." Emma nodded numbly and did as he bade her once she laid Ororo back down on the ground. She shimmied out of the slip, not caring about decency, and she promptly tore it in half, then into long strips as he described. Santo was satisfied.

"Drape her across my back. Tie her wrists together around my neck."

"Won't that choke you?" 

"No. I'll manage. I can't walk upright and carry her the entire way home, she will need to ride across my back. I'll need your hands to manage this, milady."

"All right." Emma had no idea what she was doing, but she improvised, letting Rahne and Dani help her drag the Wind-Rider atop his broad back. Her wings sprawled open in an ungainly manner, and Emma feared that they would drag along the ground. "Her wings will need to be bound."

"Mercy, no," Rahne exclaimed. "Mistress would hate that!"

"There's no choice," Santo reminded them. "Do it. Anchor her tightly against me. If I drop her, we could end up opening up her wounds and making things worse." Emma struggled with the strips of fabric, hands shaking and numb from the cold, but she tied off several more neat, snug knots, binding Ororo's pinions together at her shoulder blades. She marveled at the wiry strength of those wings and their hollow, spiny bones. Her silky feathers molted in places where she had been clawed and bitten, and Emma shuddered to see the creature so grievously injured.

She put aside her resentment of her and the day's previous events and walked alongside her companions, back toward the hills.

*

 

She was exhausted by the time they reached the great hall. Santo growled and roared, scratching at the door, and Emma heard chittering behind it, sensing Marie-Ange's thoughts. The bolt was slid back, and Emma worked the door open, nearly falling through it. Manuel hurried into the foyer as fast as his paws would carry him, followed by Jenny, who hissed in alarm at the sight of them.

"Good heavens! What happened?"

"Help me," Emma rasped. "Take her... take her upstairs to her rooms. I need supplies. Water. Cloths. Needles."

"But you're dead on your feet, senorita!" Manuel was dumbfounded. Emma was shivering and blood, a complete mess, but she directed Santo upstairs. Manuel squeaked in alarm as he watched blood splash the floor boards as Santo lumbered away. One of Ororo's feathers broke loose and drifted back to him, and the hare clutched it, running his digits over its silky texture. "Mistress," he whispered, "what happened to you?"

"She was protecting me," Emma explained. "Now help me. I need herbs and the other things I asked for."

"In the kitchen." Emma followed him, but her feet throbbed. She kicked off her ruined boots and removed her cloak, dropping it over a nearby chair.

"Pick up that basket and go into the pantry," Manuel ordered tersely. "You will find all you need in there. Just ask for it aloud, and it will appear inside."

"You're joking."

"Do it. Quickly." Emma reached for the large picnic basket, woven from dark, thick reeds. 

"Mortar. Pestle," she snapped. Sure enough, both items jumped from the shelves into the basket with a small thump. She jumped back in surprise. "Clover." A small brown packet of it appeared inside, as well. "Whiskey." From the top shelf, she heard a sliding noise, and a tall, slender flask became visible, waiting for her to reach for it. "Needles. Catgut." Emma ticked off a list of herbs that she needed, and one by one they appeared in her basket.

She gathered up clothes, candles, and a small copper kettle and dragged all of it upstairs, not caring how fatigued she was. Santo had already managed to release his mistress from his back, and she laid crumpled across the bed on her side; he'd been mindful of her injured wings, not wanting her weight to crush them.

"She looks awful," Emma muttered. She rushed down again and brought back two pails of water, and they sloshed slightly as she filled the great kettle and set it over the flames.

She assembled her herbs and began adding them to the mortar, grinding them down into a coarse powder. She added boiling water to these and tasted it, grimacing at its bitterness. She mixed it with a finger of whisky in a small tin cup, then sweetened it with honey. It wasn't much of an improvement when she tasted it again, but it would have to do. Emma crouched beside the bed and reached for the Wind-Rider's head, turning her face upward by her furry jaw. She frowned at the blood crusting her fur, coagulating and turning sticky beneath her fingers.

"Don't think I forgot about how you locked me up," Emma muttered, but her heart softened at the vulnerability in the beastly face when she was unconscious. She lightly slapped her cheek, trying to rouse her. "Stay with me. Wake up, now. Listen to me! You have to wake up!" Emma tugged on a lock of her hair, shaking her.

She took a different tack, opening a channel between them and calling out to her. _Wind-Rider. I need you to wake up. Open your eyes. Tell me you hear me._ The creature stirred slightly, and Emma was rewarded with a small, hoarse groan. "That's it. Up and at 'em. Auntie Emma cooked up something for you, even if you don't deserve it."

"Nnnngh..." The creature's eyes opened into drowsy slits. "Wha...?"

"Drink." Emma struggled with her, trying to roll her over enough to tip the cup against her lips. The Wind-Rider wrinkled her nose at the putrid scent of the concoction, but Emma had her way, managing to splash some into her mouth. The creature grimaced, but the drug was potent, having an immediate narcotic effect, and an analgesic one as well. She struggled less when Emma gave her a second generous dose.

She drifted in and out of consciousness, barely aware that she was lying on a bed, or that a young woman was hovering over her, working feverishly on her.

Emma stoked up the fire and lit candles throughout the chamber to allow herself adequate light. Emma stripped off her gown and belt with some difficulty, and she gasped at the sight of her body. The Wind-Rider truly was female, owning elegant, generous curves, a narrow waist, and long tapered legs. Her shoulders were broad and her arms slender, more than Emma would have expected for someone so strong. Her breasts were large and full, and Emma noticed dark, fleshy buds crowning each that hardened once they were bathed with Emma's damp wash rag. Emma flushed when she gently moved the Wind-Rider's thigh, parting her legs slightly to examine the flesh there. Two perfectly formed labia, shielded by lush, thick fur, met her curious gaze. Her hand wavered over it for a moment, but Emma snatched it away, annoyed at herself for even considering taking such a liberty.

Emma commenced to bathe her, taking special care with her injuries. Her fur was coarse yet soft, not unlike Rahne or Dani's. Her body was pliant beneath Emma's hands as she worked, debriding and cleaning out wounds with sharp antiseptic. She probed and cleaned out the wound in her throat, trimming away the fur surrounding it to keep away infection. Emma held up a candle more closely to allow herself to see more properly, and she wasn't expecting the skin beneath the fur to be a deep, almost cinnamon brown.

The wound was thankfully shallow, and Emma managed to cauterize it with a hot knife, suturing it with needles she sterilized in boiling water and lengths of catgut. The Wind-Rider barely stirred, and Emma feared that she might have given her too strong a dose of the herbs, but she was relieved that she was still breathing evenly. Emma bathed her throat again, washing away the clotted blood. Her rows of stitches were neat, but her skin still appeared hideously puckered in the meantime. Emma doubted her patient would be too self-conscious about it if having a scar meant she'd survived.

Emma sat back on the floor, kneading her neck muscles, which screamed at her. Every nerve and tendon in her body was knotted and uncomfortable and Emma felt filthy. But exhaustion claimed her, and if she didn't get up now, she would spend the night sprawled on the floor.

Emma pulled a nearby chaise closer to the bed and laid herself down, not wanting to go too far away. She was awakened by the sensation of tiny paws kneading her belly, followed shortly by the tickle of whiskers over her lips. Emma's blue eyes cracked open to find Jenny's staring into them.

"How is she?" she mewed in concern.

"Resting. Alive."

"Thank heaven." Jenny settled against her, continuing to knead her, something Emma tolerated more out of exhaustion than patience. She absorbed the cat's warmth and drifted back to sleep.

She awoke to guttural screams and thrashing sounds that made her flesh crawl. The Wind-Rider was awake, and she was in pain. Emma felt her emotions and suffering completely unfiltered, and her thoughts were a mad, excruciating jumble that made her head throb.

PainhurtsPAINheavenhelpmePAINpleasemakeitstoptearingBURNINGpain...

"Shhhh! Shhhhh! You're all right! You're in your room! Do you hear me?"

"MAKE IT STOP!" She thrashed and glared up at Emma with accusing, cloudy slate eyes. Her fanged teeth chattered and when Emma touched her face, she felt clammy.

"Fever," she whispered. Her worst fear was realized, and Emma hurried to make more of her potion. She fought with her, literally having to take the beast by the horns. Ororo fought against her, slapping her with a taloned hand. Emma forced her hand away and managed to shoulder her back down to the pillows. Christian and Adrienne had been similiarly delirious once when she nursed them through fevers, but neither of them were quite this strong...!

She worked the tonic down the Wind-Rider's throat again, almost ending up dashed to death by a stray stroke of her injured wing, but Emma prevailed, and the creature collapsed. Emma panted and huffed, scraping her hair back from her sweaty face. "Damn it. Damn, damn, damn. This wasn't supposed to happen." She bathed the Wind-Rider in cool cloths, examining her. She'd dressed all of her shallower wounds, all except for her wings...

She rolled her onto her belly, something she wasn't initially pleased about, but it gave her a better view of her wings. She gently combed through her feathers, probing her pinions, looking for exposed muscle and cartilage, and Emma hissed in pain as she was poked by something sharp. A long sliver of bone protruded hideously through her flesh. "Good heavens," Emma whispered. She needed to reset that bone, and be careful about it, because birds' wings were delicate, with hollow bones that could snap too easily if she mishandled her.

Emma worked painstakingly over the next few hours, probing and debriding the wound, opening up her flesh with a small, heated knife. It was gruesome work; Emma's fingers grew bloody and sticky, scratched by the roots of stray feathers. She gradually maneuvered the bone back into place, anchoring it in place with a loop of catgut. Slowly, carefully, she sutured her flesh, taking care to make sure the bone and muscle wasn't left exposed. She flushed the wound as she worked with warm water, ensuring that feather fragments and hair weren't remaining inside it. Emma packed a clean dressing around it and tied it securely with more strips of her slip to hold it in place.

She felt the Wind-Rider's distress and panicked, afraid that she would wake and disturb her wounds or undo her work. Emma turned her gently to her side again, letting her wings dangle slightly off the edge of the bed, and she gave her another dose of the potion preemptively, hoping she would rest for a few more hours. She pulled up the covers around her and retreated to the chaise. But Emma no sooner sat down than she heard a low, muted psychic plea.

_Stay. Don't leave me._

Emma frowned. That was the Wind-Rider's voice in her mind, as plainly as if she had whispered it aloud. But the Wind-Rider was perfectly still. Emma changed her mind about where to sleep. She crawled onto the bed and laid on her side, facing her patient. The creature's expression was deceptively peaceful, lacking cunning. Emma sighed, wondering how on earth she ended up here, how things between them had changed so dramatically within a day. Her eyes, aching from exhaustion, finally drifted shut.

Emma didn't notice a long, soft taloned hand reaching for hers while she slept, gently squeezing her fingers.

*

 

Emma heard fine strains of music again, the kind you listened to during a ladies' luncheon in a closed parlor. She followed it, but this time it wasn't coming from the ballroom. The house around her was relatively devoid of household noise; she didn't hear servants chatter or the banging of pots being washed.

She peered around the edge of a door frame, impressed by the large parlor. The furnishings were elaborate and elegant, upholstered in soft blues with covered buttons and silk tassels. At the room's center was a large, gleaming white pianoforte.

The woman playing had her back to Emma, but she had lush white hair cascading down her back, and her hands, when they rose from the keys, were slender and brown. She wore a day gown of soft lilac with short sleeves and a modest neckline. Her playing was skilled and confident, and Emma listened in awe, completely rapt.

The woman paused; Emma didn't know how long she'd stood there. The vision before her turned herself around on the bench and met her gaze.

"Are you going to just stand there?" Her voice was deep and melodious, and the corner of her full, rosy lips curled in a smirk.

"Pardon?"

"I said, are you going to just stand there? Or will you dance?" It was a ludicrous question. Emma didn't know this woman, even though she intrigued her.

She was so lovely that she took Emma's breath away. The woman chuckled and turned her back on her, resuming her song. "Do you know how to waltz?"

"Er... no."

"Shame," she tsked. "You look graceful enough. I'll bet you could if you tried."

"I never have time to dance," Emma shrugged.

"Do you write? Paint?"

"No."

"Sketch? Ride? Shoot?" The lovely creature played, occasionally peering up at Emma as she shyly entered the parlor. Sapphire blue eyes laughed at her expense.

"I think I covered that when I mentioned I didn't have time?"

"No time. Hmm. How do you spend your time, dear?"

"I live at my sisters' disposal. I have a home and farm to maintain, and my father relies on me to hold things together."

"You're a daddy's girl, then."

"If you like."

"Yet he expects a mere slip of a girl like you to 'hold everything together.'"

"If not me, then who?" Emma ventured closer and watched, rapt, as her hostess' fingers flew over the keys. She breathed in her light, sweet perfume, mentally identifying gardenias and jasmine.

"You've a brother, don't you?"

"How do you know?"

"I hear things, here and there." Emma was puzzled. The woman's speech was enigmatic, her manner sly, and she seemed to enjoy baiting her. A dim memory came to Emma, a name materialized on her tongue.

"Ororo... isn't it?"

"Oui, oui, mademoiselle," she chuckled, winking up at her. "At your service." She beckoned to her, motioning for her hand. Emma extended it and let Ororo gently turn it, palm facing up. Her touch was light as a kiss as she probed the calluses she found. She tutted and caressed Emma's palm with her thumb, a provocative gesture that made Emma's belly jump. "How hard you must toil, darling." She ran her fingertips over Emma's rough, broken nails with sympathy. Emma noticed that the stranger's were perfectly buffed, long and even, and it made her feel self-conscious about her hands. But Ororo gave her a smile that was almost reassuring.

"You're a woman of strong character, Emma Frost. And I find it... refreshing." She released Emma's hand and rose from the bench, only to stop Emma before she could move away. She caught her by the hand again and closed the gap between them. 

"What on earth...?" Ororo looped her arm around Emma's waist, shocking her with her disregard for personal space. All she could see were eyes of blue and rosy, soft lips. The scent of jasmine filled her head and Emma heard her own heart pound.

"It's time to teach you that waltz I promised."


	13. Break of Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decisions are made. Rules are spelled out. And Christian receives some visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. I've been clamoring for some smut in this piece. I like angst as much as the next person, but bring on the heavy breathing, fer cryin' out loud... it's about to get citrus up in here.
> 
> Also, I'm sorry if the dream sequences are choppy. I'm still inspired by a cheesy flick of Beauty and the Beast with Rebecca DeMornay, I think it was made back in the eighties or early nineties. Also, if you read the old, original version of this fairy tale, Belle dreamed of a handsome prince at night, even while she tried to get to know the hideous beast during the day.
> 
> Right. No spoilers. Just angst, violence and smut. Tally-ho!

Emma woke with the sound of music drifting into her memory and with the scent of pungent herbs tickling her nose. Her limbs ached and felt heavy, and her neck had a crick in it from sleeping in unnatural angles. She reached up and rubbed her eyes, swiping at the grit that gathered there overnight. 

When she tried to move her other hand to scratch, it was pinned down, caught in a warm, snug grip. Emma stiffened.

Slowly, her senses reminded her of where she was, rehashing what had transpired. Emma smelled her healing herbs and the funk of damp fur. The bed beneath her was lofty and comfortable, but it wasn't hers. She heard low, raspy breathing, not unlike the purrs a cat made when it was petted to sleep.

She blinked hard, two, three times, trying to clear away the fuzzy haze, and slowly the room around her took shape. She saw the dying embers of a fire, deciding that was why the room felt so drafty. The heavy draperies were pulled shut, blocking out most of the light, but Emma saw the faint silhouettes of the rich, heavy furniture and broad vanity.

The sight of the iron kettle and her pestle and bowls brought everything back into sharp, unwelcome focus. Emma's eyes flitted immediately toward the sound of that heavy breathing, underscored by a sleepy moan.

The creature. She was staring her in the face, which bore several scratches and a deep purple bruise that Emma could discern even through her fine fur. She remembered guiltily that the Wind-Rider had an unfortunate - albeit necessary - encounter with Emma's fist. Before she could stop herself, Emma traced the outline of the bruise with her fingertips. The creature's leonine nostrils flared, making her whiskers twitch. Emma's lips quirked at her reaction, surprised that she was that sensitive to touch, not unlike Jenny, really...

Large, slate blue eyes snapped open, and the pupils dilated into razor slits, making Emma's breath catch in her throat. The slender, taloned hand that clung to Emma as a lifeline throughout the night now manacled her wrist, ceasing its perusal of her face. The Wind-Rider felt the jump in Emma's pulse and the tension thrumming in her muscles, and she snarled, truly sounding like a great jungle cat.

Emma's heart raced and cold terror made every muscle in her body go taut as a wire. A surface scan of the creature's emotions told her that she viewed Emma as a threat, an interloper in her private chamber. "It's Emma!" she told her quickly. "It's me! Don't worry, it's all right... everything's fine. You were injured," she reminded her.

"How did I get here?" the Wind-Rider snarled as she jerked Emma close enough to feel her hot breath misting over her face. Emma longed to look away from her rage, but those eerie, reptilian eyes fixed themselves on her, sinking hooky claws deep into her soul. Her bladder was uncomfortably full, and Emma didn't trust herself to be able to hold it in the face of her fear.

"Santo b-brought you up h-here," Emma stammered.

"All the way from out there?" The creature jerked her head briefly in the direction of the window. "Don't you dare deceive me, witch!"

"It took some effort. Are you in pain?" Emma tried to sound calm in a vain effort to soothe her. 

"What?"

"Do you hurt?"

"Does what hu..." Her words were cut off by burning, lancing agony that made her buckle. She gripped Emma's wrist, threatening to crush the bone, and Emma let out a brief shriek of outrage.

STOP THAT! LIE STILL! 

Emma's lips hadn't moved. The Wind-Rider's eyes dilated with the realization that Winston Frost's daughter spoke to her with her mind. "You... dare..."

If it will make you pay attention to me and listen, then aye. You'll open your wounds. Emma's jaw was set, and her blue eyes challenged her.

"I should fling you out that window and give you another flying lesson," the beast sneered.

"I'd like to see you try. You're in no shape to fly," Emma told her dryly. "Let go of me. I need to get up."

"How do I know you won't try to escape?" Emma's eyes locked on hers, and her lips thinned. Defiance sprang into her chest.

"I could have by now," Emma pointed out. The creature scowled, uttered a low growl in her throat, then sharply released her.

"Go. Attend to yourself," she told her dispassionately. "But stay out of my head. Don't make me make good on my promise about teaching you to fly, Emma Frost."

"Don't make me teach you some manners, milady," she retorted as she flung the bedclothes free and rolled up out of bed. She regretted moving so fast; her leg muscles and upper back groaned in protest.

"You're a ragged robin," the creature muttered.

"That's the pot calling the kettle black."

"Burn that horrid frock. I don't wish to lay eyes on it again."

"Remind me to dig out my Sunday best when I'm finished saving your life," Emma sang over her shoulder as she marched out of the chamber.

The thought occurred to her that if the Wind-Rider was already giving her orders again, she must be feeling better. Small comfort, indeed.

 

Ororo watched her leave with a hint of longing, almost wishing she could call her back. She reached down and stroked the empty side of the bed, feeling the sheets cooling beneath her palm, but they still bore Emma's scent. For that matter, so did she. Ororo smelled Emma's fragrance in her fur, leaving her disconcerted and puzzled. Had she taken that many liberties with her while she was vulnerable? 

No. Of course not. It wasn't in her. Despite Emma's psychic gift and Ororo's distrust of such a skill, she didn't sense dishonesty in the girl. She could have left while she was unconscious, couldn't she, and robbed her blind in the process. Or worse, and Ororo shuddered, she could have led the townsfolk through the brush to invade her home while she was weakened and defenseless. But Emma hadn't.

Ororo relaxed back against the lush pillows, wincing at the pain that caused in her pinion. Her entire shoulder felt like it was on fire. Myriad bruises decorated her flesh, joined here and there by lacerations and scrapes. She reached back as far as her reach would allow and felt for the odd pad of bandages around her wound. She tested her wing, attempting to unfold it, and she cried out against the burn that gripped her before she'd even opened it to half her span. Tears of outrage stung her eyes, and she was grateful that Emma had left her rooms, after all. She was helpless.

Emma tried to obey her mistress' wishes, initially, but she was projecting her emotions, and Emma was having a difficult time blocking them out. By the time Emma reached her own suite, she was consumed by the Wind-Rider's anguish and rage. A deep red flush rose up into Emma's cheeks and she broke out in a cold sweat. Dizziness swamped her, and her legs turned into jelly. Emma fell against the vanity, gripping its edge for support. "Damn it... I can't get out if you don't stop snatching me back inside."

"Please tell me you haven't started talking to yourself. I don't know what we'll do if you go mad," Jenny mewed from the doorway.

"Sorry. I wasn't... never mind. I always talk to myself when I'm frustrated."

"Are you?"

"No. I'm terrified. And I'm exhausted."

"We all are, after last night," Jenny chimed in, yawning widely and displaying her broad pink tongue. Her blue eyes were sleepy slits as she wandered over to Emma and wound around her ankles. Emma reached down and scratched beneath her chin, and the little minx purred loudly, butting her head against Emma for more.

"I smell," Emma complained.

"No worse than you'd expect after spending most of the night out in the woods."

"I had to keep your mistress' chamber warm so she could sweat out the fever."

"You were probably sweating it out, too, then."

"I need a bath. Ooh. And the chamber pot," Emma remembered, suddenly darting away.

"Want me to have water sent up?"

"No. That will take too much time." Emma found the pot and dragged it with her behind a screen. Jenny heard the rustle of her skirts and yawned again.

"So how do you plan to bathe? I could have Rahne and Dani sent up," she suggested coyly.

"Rahne and Dani? But how would they... oh." Emma tsked. "Naughty girl. Bad kitty." But her skin tingled at the memory of lying with the she-wolves, and how decadent their lush fur felt against her skin, and the exquisite stroke of their tongues. Emma finished up, then stripped down to her chemise and drawers. She gathered up a small basket of soap, a wash rag, and two folded towels. Emma emptied the pot and took the basket downstairs to the lake.

The air was chilly, but the sky was clear and calm. The sun peeked through the clouds, shining through the branches and throwing a feathery lattice of shadows over the ground. Emma approached the edge of the water and toed off her shoes. She stripped and set down her basket, folding her garments before she braved the chilly-looking water. But to her surprise, it was more warm than tepid, and she strode in up to her waist. Emma dipped the lump of soap into the water, rubbing it between her palms to create a lather. The scent of lavender and cassis tickled her nostrils as she cleaned herself, being mindful of her many nicks and bruises. She dipped the soap again and ducked under the water to wet her hair. 

Ororo reached for the pillow that bore an indentation from where Emma lay. She lifted it to her face and inhaled, and yes, that was her scent. It was natural and unmarred by perfumes, but it was still intoxicating. Ororo's eyes drifted shut as she inhaled again...

Her reverie was interrupted by a low splash. "What's going on?" she mused. Ororo teased the winds outside her window, drawing the sound closer to better discern where it was coming from. There it was again, low splashes and the rush of ripples as someone waded out in the lake. Her lake. The interloper identified herself with cheerful, feminine humming.

Emma was bathing outside.

How dare she do such a thing without permission! That disobedient, willful little tart! Ororo took a breath and heaved herself from the bed, flinging away the covers. She wandered over to the window and yanked back the curtains, searching for the intruder.

There. 

Emma's back was turned to her, long, lean and gracefully curved. Her hair was damp, its usual ash blond darkened to molten honey where it flowed down her back. Her creamy skin was marred by bruises and scrapes, and Ororo felt regret at their cause. But her mouth went dry at the sight of her curves and elegant muscle tone, enhanced by her proud posture. 

She was exquisite. Truly. She ran the small lump of soap over her skin, cleaning beneath the curves of her lush breasts. Her wet flesh gleamed in the sunlight when Emma turned around, and Ororo's eyes dilated at the sight of her nipples, tourmaline pink little buds begging for - 

No. It didn't help her to think such thoughts. But Ororo felt her body betray her yearning as she watched the girl cleanse herself, touching her body intimately, without a thought as to who might be watching.

Emma continued her bath, wading out further to better submerge herself and to avoid the chill from the light breeze. When she was in up to her elbows, she dunked herself again to rinse off. On a whim, Emma fell back and floated belly-up, supine and carefree. Her hair fanned out around her head like a halo as the water lapped at her.

Want seized Ororo in its choking grip. "Blast," she muttered. "Minx." She could see the sweet rapture of how much she was enjoying the water and her own solitude. Her breasts, the smooth curve of her belly, long, creamy, tapered thighs and the soft, sandy mound of her sex pouted up at the sky like an offering to the gods. Ororo felt her loins tighten and stomach clench, and unwelcome heat rushed into her sex. "Damn it," she hissed.

This wouldn't do. This wouldn't do at all.

Ororo craved nothing more than to fling herself outside and to spiral down to the ground in that moment. She longed to join Emma in the lake and claim her, to hear her heart pound and feel her slick, cool flesh. It had been too long since she'd felt that pull, that passion...

... as a woman. Not as a beast who had to solicit favors in exchange for gold coins in dark of night, the Wind-Rider reminded herself. Emma found her repulsive, that much was obvious. And why shouldn't she?

Ororo would have to woo her. Emma wasn't that hard to read, on the surface. She was sensitive and caring, certainly, with just a hint of haughtiness that made Ororo smile. She was intelligent enough to give Ororo's girlhood tutors and headmasters a run for their money. She recalled the moment that she stepped into her vast library, the hunger on her face like an urchin staring through a bakery window. She wondered how she could appeal to her studious side and curiosity.

How could she break the curse?

How, indeed.

Emma felt an odd frisson of emotions that were foreign and unsettling. A tingle of electricity ran up her back; she snapped upright, no longer supine. A wave of lust hit her, so forceful and overwhelming that she shuddered, groaning out of duress. The fierce need was tempered with despair and yearning, and Emma's throat clenched. How was it possible to feel such pain, and such need, and not know an inkling of relief? Emma had a sudden flash in her mind, a psychic imprint that felt like an echo. She saw herself through another's eyes, dripping, skin gleaming in the morning sunlight.

She was being watched. A low, feminine whisper reached her, as close as a kiss...

Please.

Emma's eyes darted toward the faintest flickers of movement and sound, fearing the snap of twigs or thud of footfalls. The Wind-Rider's estate was remote, but not hidden from passerby. She no longer felt confident in her solitude.

I can't do this.

That wasn't an intruder. Not a physical one, at any rate. Emma waded out of the water, and her pace quickened once she reached shore. She scooped up the rough towel and wrapped herself up against prying eyes. She crammed her feet into her slippers and snatched up her basket and clothes, and Emma ran back into the house as though she tread red-hot cinders.

The voice haunted her, so familiar and so full of need, pulling at her. Had she imagined it? She couldn't have, could she? Was she just so exhausted that she was going daft?

Emma was too relieved once she was safe within stone walls again to ponder that her psychic gift might have allowed stray thoughts leak into her consciousness, or that the owner was desperate, in her own way, to make them heard.

 

Emma brought up a luncheon tray loaded with silver dishes and teapot, taking care not to spill anything. She was certainly used to performing the task for her sisters, lazy baggages that they were, so why should her stay at the Wind-Rider's keep be any different? She had no more freedom than before, despite her richer surroundings. She trod quietly over the plush rugs and felt the customary chill of the darkened corridor that led to her patient's room. Emma knocked out of courtesy.

"What do you want?" came her reply, raspy and gruff.

"To feed you. I've eaten; you haven't." Emma began to let herself in, but the door was locked. She jiggled the knob impatiently. "If you're capable of getting up, you can let me in."

"Go away. Leave me be."

"Ridiculous. You're starving by now, I'm sure of it." In the dark confines of the room, Ororo's stomach growled.

"Are you deaf? I didn't ask you to wait on me!" Ororo longed to add, Nor did I ask for your pity.

"I've nothing better to do," Emma shrugged.

"I'll give you an hour head-start this time if you plan to run. This time, I can use the shackles, instead." Ororo huffed in pain as she turned on her side, tugging the covers up to her chin. Her wing and various other bruises and lacerations on her body throbbed miserably. Aside from the aromas of the food, Ororo caught Emma's tantalizing scent; it evoked the sight of her floating on the water's surface, and she suppressed a moan.

"Surely you jest."

"Surely you didn't hear me the first time," Ororo countered dryly. "Go. Leave the tray."

Emma sighed. Fine, then.

 

CRASH!

Ororo's eyes snapped wide in shock, and she nearly injured herself again as she flipped over at the sound of splintering wood exploding from the doorway. Emma strode smoothly into the room, and what scant light that was thrown from the fireplace was captured by Emma's gleaming body. "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear," Emma suggested coolly as she set down the tray and approached the bed. Ororo's mouth dropped open, then closed again. She narrowed her cloudy eyes.

"That's a fine trick. You owe me a door."

"Any fool can replace a door. I lived on a farm." Emma's eyes glittered with prisms of light; her entire body refracted the firelight, spinning it into myriad rainbows. She wasn't transparent; rather, she seemed carved of the most brilliant of diamonds. Ororo was awestruck, despite her annoyance at the little chit. Ororo edged back slightly against the headboard as Emma sat beside her. The rushes sagged beneath her weight, something Ororo would have expected from someone more like Santo. Ororo would know; Santo had, indeed, shared her bed during his tenure at the estate as her servant, but that memory wasn't helping her right now. Ororo felt cornered, and she bared her teeth accordingly. Emma chuckled and shook her head as she reached for her. Her cool fingertips grazed the bruise along the side of Ororo's jaw, and she winced. "Sorry."

"I thought you were trying to ease my pain."

"Provided that you'll allow it. You're rather stubborn."

"Just leave the tray."

"I wanted to change your dressings. And it's time for you to eat."

"I eat alone," Ororo growled.

"If you can manage it yourself, then fine," Emma said. "Do you want to sit up and get dressed?"

"I'm fine," Ororo muttered. "I'll get around to it eventually."

"I can help you," Emma offered. The bed sprung back to its usual level once Emma rose to her feet. The sunlight filtered in through the gap in the curtains, and it shot through Emma with piercing intensity. Ororo hissed at the glare. "What's wrong?"

"Change back. It's... blinding to look at you that way."

"Oh. Certainly. Sorry." Emma shifted back, her tawny skin slowly replacing the crystalline radiance. Ororo felt slightly satisfied that she wore one of the frocks she gave her, a day gown of gray lawn. Emma had braided her hair and coiled it at her nape in a neat bun. She looked fresh and unspoiled, no longer the temptress adrift in the pond. 

She hummed as she turned her back and opened Ororo's wardrobe.

"What are you doing?"

"Finding something to lay out for you. You don't have to get dressed now... what on earth? Look at all this," Emma accused. "Look at these gowns!"

"Quit poking around," the Wind-Rider growled. Her hackles pricked up and her wings extended to half their span in warning. She rustled them to drive home her point.

"But... they're beautiful. You complain and call my things rags, but you skulk about in that miserable, horrid robe. I'd wondered if you even had anything less dreary than- "

"GET OUT OF MY THINGS!" the Wind-Rider boomed. Her pulse spiked and she heard a rushing in her ears. Emma felt resentment and fear hit her in waves, and the creature's eyes dilated before the irises were washed free of their customary slate blue, and replaced with eerie, glowing white. Outside, the sunlight fled and the chamber went dark, and Emma heard thunder boom overhead. "You're intruding where you're not welcome," the Wind-Rider told her with menace in her voice.

"I didn't ask to be here," Emma reminded her gently. Her posture was stiff and her lips flattened mulishly. "Truthfully, I wonder why you even keep me here."

"Reasons," the Wind-Rider said simply.

"Reasons," Emma sighed, rolling her eyes heavenward. Thunder continued to roll across the sky at a low rumble. "Oh, stop that nonsense. Eat, before I feed you myself."

"I eat alone!"

"I'm going to check your wound. I can do that while you eat."

"It's not necessary."

"Why are you making such a fuss? You're ravenous. You're practically slavering..."

"Just leave it there."

"Wind-Rider, for heaven's sake-"

"I DON'T WANT YOU TO WATCH ME!" the creature railed, her voice rising to a shriek. Her anxiety assailed Emma's senses, rocking her back on her heels. Her wings snapped open and rustled, bristling at Emma's temerity. Despite the rebellion inherent in such a gesture, the Wind-Rider's taloned hands clutched the bedclothes to her chest.

"I'm... disgusting." Her voice cracked and wavered. "Don't... don't watch me."

"Oh." Emma's mouth formed a tiny moue. "I... I see."

"No. No, you don't see. You don't understand, you can't." Ororo's wings gradually drooped, and she hissed in pain. Once her rage began to flag, the burning, knotted tendons flared anew and she felt her stitches pulling. What had the minx done to fix her?

"Certainly you're no worse to watch than Chris when he's hungover," Emma mused. She brought the tray to the bed. "Sit up."

"No." Ororo's eyes were still glowing white-hot, but the thunder was down to its last gasp.

"I'm don't remember giving you a choice." Emma's eyes glittered, and Ororo noticed ions of sparkling light rising and washing over her flesh.

Clearly her nurse - her houseguest - meant business. Ororo sighed, and she felt the fight leave her. Her eyes swirled back to periwinkle blue, gradually deepening back to slate. 

"They're pretty," Emma murmured as she set the tray over Ororo's lap, neatly hemming her in with its pegs.

"What?"

"Your eyes. They're pretty."

"You lie. Don't patronize me." Emma shrugged as she poured her a cup of fragrant tea and lightened it with cream. She shook the sugar tongs at her pointedly.

"I don't lie, unless the situation truly calls for it. But there are ways to tell the truth without revealing everything."

"You don't lie," the Wind-Rider snorted. "Ridiculous. You're a mind-bender. You could make me believe anything."

"If I chose, your mind could be an open book to me. I won't force my way in."

"Whyever not?" 

"Because I'm a lady. That would lack honor." The Wind-Rider was irked with her temerity; was she suggesting that she, her hostess, was without honor? She stacked the cup on the dainty, gold-rimmed saucer and handed it to her. "Is it sweet enough?"

"I'm not crippled." To her credit, she didn't snatch it away, deciding not to soil her bedclothes. She sniffed it, and Emma suppressed a giggle at the way her leonine nose scrunched back, nostrils flaring slightly. Instead of sipping it, however, Ororo began to lap at the tea, her pink tongue flicking out in rapid, fluttering licks. 

"Er... I'll just... check your wound."

"Be gentle, curse you. Hurts."

"Gentle as a breeze," Emma promised. Perhaps the Wind-Rider was right, Emma considered; it was strange watching her eat. She busied herself with the dressings, carefully removing them, cleansing the wounds and being mindful not to break the tender scabs or pull at the stitches. The Wind-Rider flinched a few times, but she wasn't in any distress. Ororo decided to forgo the utensils, and she tore savagely at the leg of fowl with her teeth. Emma ignored it as she discarded the soiled bandages and applied clean strips.

"You... erm... you have a bit of... right there," Emma said, pointing. The Wind-Rider's brow furrowed.

"A bit of what?"

"Er... meat. In your, er, whiskers." Emma reached out gingerly, and the strand in question twitched. "I'll get it."

"I don't see-yeeeee... yowtch!" Ororo jerked back as Emma tugged the offending fragment of meat from her whisker. She swatted her hand away sharply. "Those are sensitive. And they're attached," she reminded her sharply.

"It hurts that much?"

"It smarts," Ororo corrected her. "Jenny would tell you the same."

"I suppose she would," Emma agreed. She glanced down at the unfinished plate. The roll of fresh bread and boiled greens hadn't been touched. "You aren't going to eat that?"

"I prefer meat, or the occasional fruit. Berries. Not much else appeals to me. I only drank the tea because you added the cream."

"You don't like tea?"

"It's tolerable."

"Thank you for tolerating my efforts."

"Just don't give me anymore of that foul stuff you concocted for me before. It was horrid."

"That horrid concoction broke your fever and beat your infection."

"Cure me or kill me, I take it?"

"You're welcome." Emma rose and stacked the dishes back on the tray. The Wind-Rider dipped her talons into the finger bowl, something Emma didn't expect, before she removed that, too. The Wind-Rider meticulously cleaned her fingers with the linen napkin, then hissed when she hit a tender scratch. "What's wrong?"

"Ow," she complained, sucking on the tiny wound.

"That won't help it," Emma insisted as she set down the tray on the ottoman. "Let me take care of it."

"How, by pouring vinegar on it?"

"So petulant," Emma tsked. She went to the small collection of pots that remained by the fire after she tended to the Wind-Rider's injuries. Emma reached for a small white bowl of salve that she'd mixed, stirring it with the pestle. "Give me your hand."

"Must I?"

"You must." The creature sighed and reluctantly offered it to her. Emma turned up her palm gently and inspected it. "It already looks a little infected. I missed it before." She touched the pestle to the wound, spreading it with a dab of the cool white paste. Ororo hissed.

"Ow!"

"Don't be such a child."

"Perhaps, if you would stop injuring me."

"I'm sorry. I was trying to help." Emma pursed her lips and blew gently on it to cool the sting of the salve. Her thumb stroked Ororo's palm in a soft caress. 

Desire flared in Ororo's belly and her hackles stood on end. She jerked her hand away sharply and looked away, but not before Emma saw how her eyes had dilated and the way her breathing quickened.

"You should go. I'm finished."

"Let me help you put on a fresh gown," Emma insisted.

"You've helped me enough," Ororo snapped. "Go. Now." She realized how hasty and ungrateful she sounded. "Please."

"All right. I'll get this out of your way," Emma promised. She began to leave, then paused at the threshold. "Rest." Ororo heard her footsteps grow fainter and then drift off.

She was shaking.

 

*

Her dreams didn't show Ororo any mercy. She felt herself falling, faster, more deeply into darkness while the visions rushed up at her, mocking her.

She heard music, lilting, merry strains of her father's orchestra. Ororo smelled the sweet tang of wine and savory canapes and meats mingling with cologne and pomade as she drifted inside. She recognized some of the faces, yet everyone she passed ignored her entirely. She felt unsettled, yet relieved.

She made her way through the crowded parlor, realizing why it felt familiar. She heard a shrill, detested voice and sighed. Loud, girlish giggles assailed her ears. 

Anna Raven Darkholme. Still a fashion plate, and she knew it, but her outer beauty couldn't hide the defect of a vapid mind. She simpered and held court with Ororo's friends while they whispered behind their lacy fans about the other guests, giving no quarter.

"Remy visited me last night," she confided to Lady Elizabeth Braddock. "He kept throwing pebbles at my window until I begged him to stop. He said he wouldn't until I met him at the stables."

"Did you?" Eliza wondered, arching one dark brow. Her blue eyes looked calculating. "Your father will have him castrated one of these days."

"Not if he offers for me," Anna snickered. She toyed with her green satin glove and leaned in conspiratorially. "He's well-endowed."

"That's no secret," came the whispered retort.

"Anna Marie," a smooth, deep, feminine voice beckoned. Ororo's blood ran cold. 

Reluctantly, she faced herself and felt shame wash over her, thick and cloying. She turned twenty-one that night, and Lady Ororo Munroe was in her physical prime. She stood taller than any woman in the room, and she drew the most stares in her gown of midnight blue velvet. Her ivory hair was soft and lustrous, held back from her brow with row after row of pearls. She arched her brow at Anna's nerve. She had the nerve to show up in velvet that night, too, in a rich forest green that matched her eyes. She wore her chestnut hair in a cascade of Grecian curls and she hadn't been shy with the rouge, Ororo noticed. "I'm so glad that you came," Ororo lied. She accepted Anna's fragrant kiss and inwardly recoiled. She'd heard every word of their chat, and she wasn't impressed. Remy LeBeau was in high demand as a prospective suitor, but he was a rake. Anna Marie toyed with him, teasing him beyond the limits of propriety. From the sounds of things, she'd moved beyond teasing.

If he didn't ask for her hand, Anna was ruined. Ororo felt a delicious, tempting flush of power. 

This was simply too sweet an opportunity to pass up. 

"Happy birthday, darling."

"I'm glad you made it here without incident."

"Wouldn't miss it."

"Your glass is empty," she pointed out. "Manuel? Get them some more of the sweet red."

"I've already finished my second glass. It's heavenly," Anna admitted. "I shouldn't..." It was a ruse; Anna boasted that she could drink any of her peers under the table. Ororo smirked at her attempt at discretion.

"You must," Ororo insisted. "I don't want to drink alone."

"Not in this crowd," Eliza pointed out. But she paused in accepting a fresh glass of claret from Manuel, Ororo's handsome steward, and she nudged Anna sharply. "Look," she muttered. "Is that Allison?" Anna's green eyes widened and she smothered a shriek.

"What's Remy doing with her?" she railed. "Ororo, look!" she hissed. Ororo's blue eyes darted in the direction of Anna's stabbing finger. The girl had no subtlety...

Allison Blaire, the youngest child of a duke, practically hung from the tall, dashing gentleman in a dark silk coat. She was a petite strawberry blonde, fresh and charming in her pink gown. She was wily and flirted without shame. Remy was clearly enjoying himself, if his sly smile was any indication as she pretended to straighten his cravat.

"Allison arrived early," Ororo mused. 

"There's no surprise," Eliza sneered.

"She seems overly eager," Anna decided. She didn't excuse herself from her companions as she cut through the milling crowd of guests.

"She simply knows a good opportunity when she sees one," Ororo remarked as she sipped from her flute.

"What opportunity? Remy's going to ask for Anna!" Eliza exclaimed. She narrowed her blue eyes at Ororo accusingly.

"That's not the behavior of a man about to make an offer."

"Anna will be heartbroken if he doesn't," Elizabeth scolded her. "Blaire's nothing but a little baggage and a cow."

"Sheathe your claws, dear."

"You don't act like it's a problem that Anna's interests are being comprised."

"I suppose I'm not. I did introduce Allison to Remy, after all. She wouldn't be keeping such easy company with him without a proper introduction," Ororo reasoned. Betsy's mouth dropped open. "That's unbecoming, sweet. Flies might get in."

"You introduced them? Are you mad?"

"Didn't I just tell you that she arrived early? She was simply talking my ear off, and if I had to tolerate her singing along with my pianoforte for one more minute, I was going to drown myself in the punch bowl. I needed to give her a distraction. Remy's doing a splendid job." Ororo watched the drama unfold with little pity as Anna dragged Remy away by the arm toward the balcony. Allison looked confused for a moment, but Ororo's father intervened, appealing to her ego by complimenting her gown. Ororo cringed when she heard him murmur to her consolingly.

"Allison, you've grown so skilled on the pianoforte. Surely you'll indulge us in another song?"

"It would be my pleasure, Highness," she insisted, beaming. 

"Anna's about to shame herself," Eliza cut in, interrupting Ororo's reverie.

"Anna took care of that already when she met him at the stable. It's called finesse, Eliza."

"Have you really so little loyalty to your friend?" Elizabeth's voice was filled with gall.

"My loyalty only extends as far as my sympathy. It's run out. If she can't remember the rules, she shouldn't play the game. It's that simple." She toasted her with her claret, which needed to be refilled already. "Cheers, sweet." Ororo sailed off, and she smiled to herself as she heard a sharp slap and brief shriek echo back from the balcony.

 

Ororo watched her younger self with a mixture of amusement and gall. Had she truly been that shallow? She had been so complacent, blissful in her ignorance of the misfortunes to come. She continued to immerse herself in the visions, hearing the familiar chatter and watching the elite mingle and exchange the usual pleasantries without a shred of sincerity. 

Princess Ororo knew all of the correct things to say, how to hold her wine goblet, which spoon to use for the caviar, and how to dance an elegant reel. By the third hour, however, she began to grow bored. Anna retired to N'Dare's suite with a fit of the vapors, and Ororo was glad to see the last of her for the evening. 

The ball gradually roared into full swing, and Ororo held court with myriad dance partners, ignoring her screaming toes. They throbbed in the expensive, spool-heeled slippers, but she didn't care. She chatted and laughed herself hoarse, enjoying and even inviting the innuendos from Warren Worthington, who had become one of her favorite pastimes.

Ororo watched herself being led away, and she almost wanted to call out to her, but she knew it was a futile effort. Regret warred with satisfaction when she remembered that night. Warren was handsome in his ice-blue cravat and charcoal gray coat. His thick blond hair felt soft and cool whispering through Ororo's fingers as he devoured her throat. His mouth was hot, and the planes of his body were firm and hot, flush against her velvet-draped curves.

"How long do I have to wait for you tonight? When will this blasted thing end?"

"You haven't even wished me happy birthday," Ororo chuckled. Her voice was like thick, dark honey. He growled into their kiss, and Warren roughly palmed her breast. She enjoyed making him suffer...

"You don't want to let me see my next one. You're killing me. I want you so badly. I want you out of this damned gown..."

"So impatient," she chuckled. "Soon."

"Not soon enough." Heat crept into her loins, and he ground himself against her. She felt the hard knot at the apex of her thighs, throbbing for her, and Ororo savored her role as his tormentor.

"When the last dish of cake is cleared away, I will have Father call an end to it. And I have a surprise for you."

"Ororo," he warned, but she raised a hand to his lips when he tried to change her mind with more kisses.

"You'll love it. I promise."

 

The Wind-Rider remembered every note of each waltz, re-heard every compliment and every proposition made to her. Some she refused; some she deferred. Ororo once again lacked pity for Anna as Remy handed Allison his calling card. He was so fickle...

The cake was sumptuous, a towering confection of buttercream frosting and marzipan. The guests barely touched it, a monumental waste to Ororo's mother, who abhorred excess, but it was her only child's coming of age, and the night was hers. Rahne, the modest, red-haired scullery girl, began to gather up the plates from the long tables while Danielle, the dark, exotic maid she shared a suite with, discreetly swept the crumbs from the fine linen tablecloths and began retrieving guests coats and wraps.

The Wind-Rider watched them, resigned. She'd doomed them, as well, with her choice. She felt a sense of growing dread as the night progressed. She watched the vision from beneath a dark cloud of gloom. Outside, the stars grew obscured by dark clouds. The moon struggled to reign over the inky sky.

The last plate was swept away. Ororo nodded to her father and toasted him with her glass. He looked relieved and exhausted as he beckoned to the guests, clapping his hands.

"My lovely wife and I would like to thank all of you for attending my daughter Ororo's special night. Alas, I'm afraid that I have to bring this evening to a close. But I'd like to propose a toast to my daughter's future. N'Dare and I were blessed, richer than ever before the day she was born. Happy birthday, darling." Ororo teetered slightly on her feet, drunk and spent, and her father's face pleaded with her. She mustered her balance and gave him a dutiful kiss on the cheek. She heard his low sigh and found Warren across the room, watching her with smoldering eyes.

He winked. She smirked. Oh, it was going to be so delicious.

 

*

Ororo watched herself bid her parents good night as they climbed the winding stairs. David retired to the master suite without any further delay. N'Dare paused in the corridor once the door clicked shut. Her eyes pinned her daughter and she folded her arms.

"I assume you're going to turn in for the night?" N'Dare suggested nonchalantly. She peered out the window and saw that Worthington's carriage was still outside.

"Heavens, no, Mother." Ororo's eyes were glazed but hard. Her smile was haughty. N'Dare shook her head.

"I wash my hands of this."

"Good night, Mother."

"Good night, Ororo." The Wind-Rider saw herself march down the staircase, discretion completely absent, and she sighed.

It was the beginning of the end.

*

Warren lingered in the kitchen, munching on some sugared almonds. Manuel suffered him easily enough, making casual small talk as he polished the silver. Santo merely looked annoyed as he discarded the empty wine bottles and listened to Warren drone on.

They both straightened up as the young mistress of the house entered. "You both did a lovely job," she told them. Manuel winked; she winked back, patting his arm fondly.

"Would you like a fire for tonight?"

"Not in my suite," she told him. He arched one dark brow. 

"Then... where, senorita?"

"In Rahne and Dani's. It's drafty at night. They deserve a roaring fire, don't you think?"

"They've probably already set it," Santo grumbled.

"I'll take care of it," Manuel assured her.

"The silver can wait until morning," Ororo agreed cheerfully. Warren gave her a pointed look and held up his palms in a telling gesture. Why was she dissembling and wasting time?

They exited the kitchen, but instead of leading him upstairs, they detoured down the back hall, following Manuel. He knocked on the door to his left, and it opened a crack. Rahne's green eyes peered out at her, and the girl gave her a bashful smile. She still wore her serving uniform, and behind her, Danielle sat at the vanity. She'd removed her cap and was unwinding her long, black plaits.

"Can I get you anything, Mistress?"

"Let us in?"

"Of course. Come in." Rahne was nervous, but Danielle smiled invitingly as they entered and rose from her seat, ready to serve. Manuel came in and stoked up the fire that was already set in the grate, throwing on another log of almond wood that gave off cheerful red sparks as it hit the flames. Warren looked amused but impatient.

"Are we here to play cards with the help?" he inquired innocently.

"That will be all, Manuel," Ororo told him. He bowed and backed out of the room. Ororo retrieved the small brass key and locked the chamber door. Warren huffed in surprise. 

"What are you ...?"

"I told you that you'd like my surprise," she chuckled as she crossed the room and sat at the vanity. "Help me," she told Rahne. She automatically began removing the pearls from her mistress' hair, unwinding them carefully, taking care not to tangle them. Before he could protest, Danielle took his hand and led him to the high-backed chair upholstered in dark tapestry. She gently nudged him back into it and knelt before him, unlacing his boots. Understanding dulled his resistance, and a slow smile spread across his face.

Rahne's fingers combed through Ororo's hair, smoothing it. The gentle caresses felt luxurious against her scalp. She removed her jewelry, setting the bangles, sparkling ear drops and pendant on the vanity, and her touch was gentle and solicitous. Without being asked, Rahne began to undo the long row of tiny buttons down Ororo's back, sweeping her fall of hair over her shoulder and revealing the graceful curve of her spine and flawless brown skin. She parted the bodice and skimmed the sleeves down her slender arms, and Warren's mouth went dry, not only at Ororo's beauty, but at the clear pleasure her maid took in undressing her. Ororo stood, and Rahne helped her step out of the dress, leaving her in her corset, drawers, stockings and garters. While Rahne assisted Ororo, Danielle made short, efficient work of his cufflinks and divested him of the bothersome cravat. He didn't scold her for her temerity as she sank down onto his lap and unfastened the buttons of his coat and shirt. Her fingers felt cool where they grazed his bare chest. His manhood stiffened and he quivered at her touch. 

"Are your servants always this... friendly?"

"For the most part," Ororo replied casually as Rahne unlaced her, freeing her from the confines of the satin corset. Her full, firm breasts threatened to spill over the top hem, and Warren was tempted past reason by the first glimpse of her dark, gleaming, plum brown nipples as her maid relieved her of the punishing garment. Rahne's soft, full lips traced the marks made along her back by the stays and lacing, and Warren's breath caught. Ororo took Rahne's hand and pulled her around to face her, and she began to return the favor, untying her apron and pulling it over head. Before he could watch them any further, Danielle gently gripped his chin and tilted it up into a kiss that consumed him. He groaned into her mouth and allowed her entry, giving himself up into her caress and the slow, deliberate grind of her hips.

"I need you to serve me a while longer before I retire tonight," Ororo murmured as she unfastened the buttons on Rahne's sleeve cuffs.

"Your wish is my pleasure, Mistress." Ororo tired of looking at Rahne's drab work dress and was glad to see it puddled on the floor around her dainty white feet.

"I wish you to show me pleasure," she agreed with a langorous smile. "I wish you to show our guest the best hospitality that we have to offer."

"Will he stay the night?" Rahne inquired politely. 

"Of course," Ororo husked into her ear. "Make him comfortable. See to his needs."

"Yes, Mistress." Her voice quivered at her touch, and her full, soft lips invited Ororo to use her, dominate her and exhaust her completely. Ororo traced the lower one, and Rahne accepted her role in the night's revelry with a slight dip of her head as she suckled her fingertip. Her linen chemise whispered over her skin as it dropped, soon replaced by her mistress' caress.

They converged on the bed, a constantly shifting arrangement of tangled limbs and stroking hands. Ororo reveled in the fading fog of wine and brandy, driving it away with the stroke of hands over her body and rough, lusty kisses from servants and guest alike. The room filled with the scent of musk and lust and grew humid with the heat of the fire. She tracked the sensation of Warren's mouth pulling at her breast in tandem with Rahne's lapping at her sex. Danielle kissed her like a lover, contradicting their mistress/servant relationship. Ororo was spoiled and capricious, certainly, but she treated them well within the confines of their chambers.

Warren recovered from the distraction afforded by the winsome young maids and mounted Ororo neatly, roughly. She delighted in the driving thrust of his hips and the lean, hard perfection of his body. He had the golden, flawless beauty of an angel, but insolence and lust radiated from his eyes. There was no love exchanged between them, only savage, unslaked need. Ororo stirred from the haze of their mating and nodded briefly to Danielle, a silent directive to satisfy themselves, a privilege they'd earned. Their embrace was fiery and possessive; cinnamon brown skin melded with fairest cream, between one maid and the other, then one prince with a princess.

She must have dozed. Through a bleary fog she watched Warren beside her, face contorted in bliss. Danielle's long black tresses tented his hips while she serviced him, teasing his taut abdomen with her fingertips. She caught his glance at that moment, and his blue eyes were burning into her with some hidden need, one that wasn't being met. Ororo tutted under her breath and kissed him in sympathy.

She rose and stretched indolently and rang for Manuel. His footsteps thudded into the corridor and Ororo shivered with anticipation, despite how sated and exhausted she felt. Her birthday celebration wasn't finished. She peered through the crack of the door, and Manuel's dark, hooded eyes were knowing, even though he went through the expected motions.

"Would you care for another log on the fire, senorita?"

"No." Ororo stepped back and opened the door fully, beckoning to him. Her hair was a wanton tangle and her eyes were drowsy but hungry. He was nonplussed by the tang of sex in the air or the occupants' nudity. Ororo closed the door and he'd begun unfastening his shirt buttons before the lock clicked into place. Danielle had been about to climb onto Warren's lap until she saw the resigned look on Manuel's face. Warren's eyes dilated as the tall, dark Spaniard made short work of his clothes, revealing firm, olive-toned flesh. Warren leaned up from the pillows, propping himself back on his elbows as Manuel approached. Warren's eyes devoured him and he gave him a lazy smile.

"Do you know why you were summoned, man?"

"It never matters why" was his casual reply. Manuel approached the bed, and Rahne and Danielle eased back, clearing the way for him. The men converged, Warren sliding to a seated position while Manuel bent his knee and propped it against the edge of the bed. He hissed out a stuttering breath at the warm fingers that enclosed him in their grip, and Manuel's dark eyes closed in pleasure and expectation, even though he felt resigned.

His mistress owned power, beauty and crafty intelligence, but she never knew true joy, love and respect. Manuel feared the day when her influence wouldn't buy her what she wanted, and he knew that she stood on the precipice of one day losing everything.

That day had come.

*

 

Ororo stirred from her slumber with a coated tongue and throbbing head. Her limbs were heavy and slack, and she lifted her drowsy head from Warren's chest. She wasn't sure what woke her at first. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness of the chamber, and she made out the forms of the furnishings and heavy drapes.

She did a head count and noticed that Manuel was gone. That puzzled her; he wasn't in the habit of leaving until she dismissed him, a testament to his decorum and loyalty. Perhaps he merely stepped out to relieve himself...

Curiosity warred with the comfort of the warm bodies hemming her in and the soft sheets. Ororo eased herself out of bed and searched the piles of clothing on the floor for her chemise. She wrestled one of the blankets out from between Warren's legs where it was bunched. He grunted and jerked the arm that Rahne was using as a pillow, but he quickly settled into a deeper slumber. Ororo smothered a snicker. Warren's household would be gossiping as voraciously as hers in the morning when he didn't return home.

Ororo padded silently down the corridor toward the kitchen, but she was stopped by a low hiss.

"Highness," Santo husked from the darkness. "We've a visitor."

"Nonsense. Certainly not at this hour?" Ororo accused. "Anyone who my father allowed to stay the night is already abed. Send them away!"

"Your visitor insists upon an audience with you."

"Tell them I refuse."

"Highness... forgive my impertinence."

"Haven't I always?" she challenged, raising one ivory brow.

"The woman is elderly and frail. It would seem like the humane thing to do to offer her a hot cup and shelter."

"Frail? What on earth is she doing this far out of town?" Ororo wanted nothing more than to fix herself a posset before returning to her warm, well-populated bed. "Ridiculous. Tell her to seek an audience with me tomorrow, at a sensible hour. Preferably not before noon." Ororo swept out of the kitchen, but Santo's entreaty slowed her down.

"It's a cruel night outside, Highness. Hear the rain and wind; it's stirred itself up into an ugly gale." Santo's expression pleaded with her in the darkness.

"You won't let me rest until I speak with her, will you? You realize I have every right to punish you for disturbing my rest in the middle of the night, sir?"

"Apologies, Highness. However, it's merely an hour before dawn."

"Ah. Thank you for clarifying the hour. I was mistaken."

"She's still outside, Highness." His voice still pleaded with her, but there was a chiding note in it, not unlike how N'Dare scolded her for her exploits.

"Very well." Ororo stalked across the cold marble, haughty and impatient, yet she was intrigued by the temerity this visitor had. She stood aside and allowed Santo to unbolt and open the heavy door. The scent of petrichor and damp leaves tickled her nose, and Ororo stared blearily at the woman before her, taking in her shabby appearance with distaste.

The Wind-Rider watched her younger self, wishing she could feel her desperation and fear. She stood on the edge of ruin, proud, vain and detached from the wretch suffering before her.

The woman was indeed elderly and wizened. Rheumy gray eyes stared out from a face that likely never knew beauty. Her skin was yellow like parchment. Tendrils of frizzy gray hair straggled around her face. Pock marks scarred her hooked nose, and deep, mulish brackets flanked her thin lips. Her smile was broad and almost comical, revealing rotting teeth with gaps here and there where some had deserted her mouth. The woman dropped a slight curtsy and spoke in querulous, raspy tones.

"Your Highness! Good evening, milady. Forgive me for stopping by so late-"

"My steward informed me it's nearly morning," Ororo snapped. "What brings you out in this gale, madam?"

"Forgive me," she repeated hastily. "I live off the land in these parts. I ran out of firewood, and I cannot afford more. The woodsman refused me a loan until I can pay him two quid."

"Ah," Ororo murmured with a nod. "I see."

"I live on my own. I seldom ask anyone for anything. I've no family to support me since my man passed from this earth."

"So are you taking this rare opportunity to ask for money?"

"Nay, milady. I ask only for shelter until the storm passes. It's cold and the wind has given me the ague. My bones throb miserably once the chill sets in."

"You ask me for shelter? How... quaint. And unfortunate." The woman's smile dropped, while Ororo's spread slowly across her face.

The Wind-Rider cried out, "NO! You FOOL!" She reached out to shake her, but her talons passed harmlessly through her.

"Highness, I beg of you. Have you a cellar of some sort, or even a place in your stable? It's quite large, and I wouldn't disturb anything..."

"You'd disturb me," Ororo argued. "Why on earth would I trouble myself with an unwanted guest? I don't know you, madam, and I cannot make assumptions about your intentions. You seem vagrant and desperate. You can see by the luxury of my home that I would be very protective of it." The old crone's lip quivered, but she smiled again as she reached into her long, dark cloak for something.

She withdrew a long-stemmed white rose. Its petals were luminous and silky, and the raindrops studded them like the finest pearls. The rose trembled in her grip. Her skin was so thin that her bumpy blue veins were visible, stretched across thickened, gnarled joints. It was a hand roughened by work, something Ororo had never experienced. They were the sort of hands that had darned socks, dragged shirts over a washboard and churned cream.

They were grasping hands, Ororo thought disdainfully. The crone beseeched her. "I come bearing a gift, Highness. A token of beauty, in honor of yours."

"Nay." Ororo's chin rose a notch. "I refuse you entry."

"You wouldn't give me shelter?"

"No more than I would an ant, or other vermin. Begone, old woman, and take your 'token of beauty' with you. You've disturbed my rest enough this night." The crone nodded sadly.

"I see." She stepped back from the door and curtsied neatly. "Highness, know this. You will never know another night's rest again." Her eyes hardened into flinty chips.

"What did you say?" Ororo demanded, now fully awake and in command of her wits.

"Your pride has come to an end." Overhead, the black clouds split open and spewed pelting rain. Lightning crackled and sizzled, illuminating the trees and limning the crone's silhouette in eerie silver light. "You would refuse shelter to one in need out of selfishness, and foolishness when you have so much to share. You would say nay to a helpless old woman." She huffed, scoffing at Ororo's nerve. "Silly wretch."

She stepped back and held up her hands, spreading her palms. Her gesture called down the might and fury of the lightning, and it struck her on the spot! Ororo screamed and drew back inside the door, fleeing the horror of seeing a human being incinerated...

...except that she stood unharmed, and completely transformed.

Ororo didn't trust her eyes, and her heart hammered in her chest. She was lashed by the cold winds that swept into her foyer as her visitor strode inside.

She was at once terrible, fearsome, and beautiful beyond compare. Gone was her shabby cloak and withered flesh. She stood taller than Ororo, willowy with elegant curves. Her features were delicate and patrician, and her pointed ears marked her as a faerie. Her robes were filmy, glowing silver-white and woven from moonbeams. Platinum blonde hair whipped around her face, held back from her brow by strings of crystal and tiny pearls.

"You've been tested and found lacking. Unworthy," the creature pronounced.

"Unworthy?" Ororo rasped. She stumbled back onto the cold stone, and she continued to recoil from her wrath.

"Indeed. You've been given a lifetime of chances to change your selfish ways, young one. You were blessed at birth with the favor of faerie protection. You've enjoyed health, riches, intelligence, charm and beauty, yet you've squandered all of these. You lack sympathy, kindness and compassion. Woe to you, Highness."

"That's... ridiculous," Ororo spat. "You're... an illusion! I merely drank too much wine! Begone, vision! SANTO!" Ororo cried out.

"He can't help you. You've brought this penalty down on your own head. You couldn't offer the merest kindness, and you've revealed your ugly heart and black soul. Since you don't know how to be humane... you no longer deserve to be human."

Ororo sat, baffled and entranced, as the faerie reached out with one long, slender finger. She touched the center of her forehead, and all at once her blood ran ice-cold. Light exploded between them, and the clamor of a thousand drums rang in her ears.

The creature released her as the glow faded away to a shower of twinkles, like errant fireflies. "Cursed," she pronounced. "Beautiful, no more." 

"What?" Ororo croaked. She didn't recognize her own voice. It was so hoarse and guttural; she wanted to blame it on the excessive drink.

"You ordered me to leave. As you wish, Highness." As a final insult, she tossed the rose before Ororo's bare feet. "Godspeed." She turned her back on her, striding proudly into the dark night.

"WAIT!" The creature peered back over her shoulder for a moment and smirked coldly. 

The lightning streaked down and consumed her neatly, and she vanished.


	14. Blurred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma's dreams haunt her. And her brother's nightmare has just begun.

"Wake up, wretch." Christian groaned over the dry, pasty feel of his mouth, too long denied fresh water. He stretched tortured muscles forced into cramped positions on the hard, tiny cot all night. His sleep was fitful and troubled by dreams of rain and blood, riddled by shrill screams. His days were indiscernible from his nights in the dark cell that he'd occupied for the past three days.

"I said, wake up." The hard voice was familiar and despised. Thompson, the burly, unshaven prison guard, had it in for him the moment he arrived. Christian's finely tailored yet soiled clothing was stripped from him, exchanged for the dull gray garb with the label of "Murderer" stitched by hand onto the breast in rough black thread. Christian rolled himself upright, planting his stocking feet on the cold wooden floor.

"What now?"

"Don't give me any of your cheek, wretch," Thompson warned. "Come along quietly, now. They're waiting for you."

"Who?"

"It doesn't matter who. Up. Now."' His voice hardened, and his beady black eyes narrowed over flaring nostrils. The gesture made the large, dark mole on his cheek stand out even more, and Christian eyed him with poorly disguised disdain. Thompson was greasy and ill-kempt, and he didn't trust him, having heard him taunting the other prisoners. Christian had the misfortune of waking up to relieve himself in the chamber pot in the corner while Thompson "visited" his neighbor two cells down to his left the night before. There was no justice for the prisoners, no matter what their story. They were left to rot, less than human, not worthy to be stamped like dust from society's feet.

Christian shuddered over the sound of the muffled cries and curses from the corridor, recognizing the tear of rough fabric and low panting easily. Revulsion consumed him, remembering Pierce and Shaw's taunts, the feel of their hands pulling at him, forcing him to submit... They unmanned him, making him feel soiled and helpless.

The only thing that kept him going was Emma. A part of him felt relieved that his sister hadn't suffered at Shaw's hands in his stead, which was surely that bastard's intention. Winston might have done her a favor taking her out of his reach. Memories of her plagued him. Was she well? Safe? Did she have a stable roof over her head? Did she have food to warm her belly? Christian's dark thoughts slowed his pace down the corridor. He stopped short, only to have Thompson run up on his heels.

"MOVE IT, WRETCH!"

"Blast," Chris hissed at the feel of the foul guard's boots chafing his flesh. He stumbled, only to be caught up and jerked aside. Thompson manacled his upper arm in his beefy grip and shoved him against the rusting bars of a nearby cell, waking its occupant harshly. "Nnngggh... whuzzat! Who?" he muttered. The prisoner squinted up at Chris, and his eyes narrowed sagely.

"Mind your own business, filth," Thompson snarled at his spectator. The prisoner shrugged and rolled over, burrowing under the coarse blankets, but he felt pity toward Christian, hating to be in his shoes at the moment. Thompson wasn't finished showing him who the boss was, and his breath was fetid and sour, misting over his face as he jerked him close enough for Christian to count his pores.

"When I tell you to step lively, you make haste, wretch," Thompson reminded him on a low growl. He gripped Christian's jaw, fingers denting his flesh. "Your pretty face won't save you here. You're nothing. Even if anyone hears you cry out, they won't truly hear you. You have no voice here unless I let you speak. Go ahead, little mouse. Hnh? Say something." Christian grunted in protest, trying to shake off the repugnance of his touch.

"Let go of me - OFF!" Thompson grinned at him and pressed Christian back, lewdly closing up the space between them. Christian was cold from the drafty cell, but Thompson's physical warmth was unwelcome and made his flesh crawl.

The sudden rush of cold, fresh air and the squeal of the door hinge made Thompson hiss and break his grip on him. The second guard, Flynn, made a sound of disgust and impatience.

"Shaw's waiting," he informed them. "And he's not happy. Move it along." Christian's face went ashen.

"He's dragging his feet."

"Likely story, suet sack," Flynn sneered. "Come along, precious." He grabbed Chris's sleeve and kept his other hand on the pistol tucked into his waistband, preferring quiet intimidation over brute force. Christian quickened his pace. "I've got him. Finish your rounds, man."

"He's part of my rounds," Thompson argued.

"Nay. Go on, sack." Flynn's eyes measured him and found him lacking. Christian didn't trust him any more than the plump guard, since Flynn was known to be just as cruel, but not with such base appetites. Thompson cleared his throat, and Christian didn't breathe until he heard his clomping footsteps retreat before the door slammed behind them. Flynn sighed. Christian's dread grew as they continued toward the holding chamber. 

The room was brighter than the prison's interior, lit with several lanterns and sconces, but there was still no window. The furnishings were spare, which was just as well; Sebastian Shaw seemed to take up all the space in the room. He leaned against he escritoire, paring his nails with a small knife. He wore a fine, black wool coat and heavy leather gloves. His breeches were charcoal wool, their finish dull against his polished Hessians. The lanterns threw odd shadows over his face, sharpening his hard bone structure and giving his dark eyes a skeletal look. Christian recoiled.

"Here he is," Flynn told them cheerfully, giving Christian a little shove.

"Sit," Shaw entreated. He nodded to Flynn, and to Christian's horror, he adjourned from the room, locking it behind him.

"No, don't!" Chris yelped. 

"Have a seat. I don't stand on ceremony most of the time, but it's impolite for my guests not to make themselves comfortable when they seek an audience with me."

"Which I didn't do," Christian reminded him. Donald chuckled behind him, and Christian froze at the familiar sound. 

"Insolent," Shaw sighed, shaking his head. "That won't do." He nodded to Donald, who grinned and closed the distance between them in quick strides. His backhanded stroke cracked across Christian's jaw, knocking him back into the chair he'd refused. His head rang with the impact and he tasted a salty trickle inside his lip.

"Stay a while."

"Basta-" Crack. Donald struck him again, and fire pulsed through his right eye.

"Your father wasn't very cooperative, either. I'll mark it up to the stubbornness of encroaching age. He was raving, too. That concerned me."

"Raving..." Christian glared up at him. "What did you do to him?"

"Merely had a chat. But as I said, he was rather distraught when I asked after your younger sister's health."

Christian's eyes narrowed and he spat at Shaw, the blood-tinged glob landing just short of his boots. The tavern owner tsked and shook his head. Donald nodded at him and slammed his fist into Christian's ribs. When he tried to take a breath, his chest felt squeezed by an enormous steel fist. "Have I struck a nerve?"

"Go to... hell." Christian's eyes were watery and blazed with hatred. "Leave her alone. Keep your filthy hands off of her."

"How droll. Therein lies the problem, Christian. She's out of my reach, for the moment. Your father... I don't know how to describe the strange mixture of confusion and amusement I felt when he told me he sent her away. He just babbled on about some bizarre bargain that he made."

"He's mad! Don't listen to that old fool." Chris felt sick betraying his father, but he was grasping at straws.

"He told his account so passionately that no matter how extraordinary it seemed, I wanted to believe him. Winston said he bartered your sister away to pay off a debt. Seems to run in the family, doesn't it?"

Christian said nothing.

"Doesn't it." Sebastian's voice hardened, and his smile thinned a bit. "Where is she, Christian?"

"Tell him," Donald growled. He backhanded him again, and he bit his tongue.

"Never," Christian gasped. "Father was lying to you."

"Then you know where she is."

"No." 

Donald took a more direct approach and kicked over Christian's chair, bowling him out of it. His hard, shining leather boot found his ribs, making Chris fight to hold his gorge. "You know."

"No. I swear, I don't..." His voice came out a tortured whine when Donald kicked him again.

"You're as bad at lying as you are at cards. Do you want to pay me my due once more?"

"Slit my throat instead." Christian's eye was swelling shut. His body remembered too well Shaw's violation; Donald's assault in this drafty chamber was more merciful.

"Be careful what you ask for. Such cheek from a man in your position." Shaw sighed and knelt beside his quivering body. He reached down and casually slapped his cheek. "Emma's whereabouts. Tell me."

"No, curse you! I don't know! She's been gone over a fortnight! I don't know where she is! Father gave her away!"

"This isn't amusing anymore."

"Listen to me," Christian demanded as he rolled back onto his elbows, but Donald ground his boot into his chest to force him back down. "Emma is where you cannot get to her. I have no means of reaching her, myself!"

"You seriously mean to tell me she's a bartered bride? And you expect me to believe it? Why not Cordelia? Or Adrienne?"

"Please," Christian huffed. He nodded his head toward Donald. "Adrienne isn't worth a plugged nickel. She's a useless little baggage, and soiled, to boot, thanks to your man here."

"She was soiled and useless long before I came along," Donald countered smugly. His smile was ugly and hard. "She knows how to fuck. I haven't tired of her yet. Yet."

"Emma's the only one your father wouldn't have to offer a dowry for," Sebastian pointed out. "He's never seemed eager to marry her off before."

"Emma isn't a bride. Emma was bartered. But not to a man." Christian reveled in the impatience and confusion that twisted Shaw's mouth.

"Donald. Christian's not being very social. Show him some manners."

*

 

Emma woke up more exhausted than she was when she went to bed. Her head felt muzzy and heavy, as though she had drunk too much wine, but she only had some chamomile tea after her supper. The only reason she could finger for her sorry state were the dreams.

The images were scattered and broken. She saw the crackle of lightning, almost feeling it sizzle down the length of her arms. She heard strains of beautiful music, waltzes woven from at least a half a dozen violins and a fine pianoforte. 

She rose groggily from bed and put on a soft silk wrapper over her modest nightgown. Emma padded barefoot down the corridor to check on her patient. She chased those fragments of her dreams, which threatened to dissolve at threat of daylight. If only she could pin them down...

She wasn't involved in them; she was a spectator instead of a player, that she knew. Shadowy images of people swirling around her, gossiping and canoodling. For some reason, she dimly remembered the flavor of marzipan and sweet cream, but Emma couldn't remember the last time she'd had any. She saw swirling skirts in gaudy colors, cluttered with ribbons, ruffles and pearls. 

She put the strange images aside as rapped on the door frame; the door itself rested end-up along the wall inside the chamber. Emma peered inside, alarmed that the room was so dark. The curtains were drawn on every window; the fire had burned down to cinders, and it was drafty inside. Emma shivered as she scanned the room. The vanity was still cluttered with Emma's herbs and tools. She made a face at bloody needle and small metal probe that she'd used to repair the creature's wing; she needed to dispose of that before-

"Nnnnggghh..." Emma saw her stirring on the bed, watching the massive wings twitch. The Wind-Rider lay sprawled on her belly, and the covers were thrown completely off. What astonished Emma was that her robe was missing.

"Oh, dear..." she tutted before she could stop herself. The sight of that body still intrigued and shocked her. Emma watched her slowly stretch and readjust herself, and then her breathing resumed a low, deep rhythm, telling Emma she wasn't finished sleeping yet. Emma fought the urge to open the drapes, not wishing to disturb her if she wanted to rest a bit longer. Emma watched her unhindered, examining her hostess in slow, silent detail.

Her left hand lay curled near her mouth, talons curled under and digging into the sheets. Those long, fine whiskers twitched and fluttered with each breath. Emma held her breath, studying her face. There was something elegant about it, despite the beastly features. Below the curved, sloping horns, her hairline was slightly widow's peaked, and her hair was lustrous and thick, not coarse like a horse's mane the way Emma assumed. Gingerly she reached for a tendril that had fallen over her eyes and smoothed it back, and the creature didn't stir. Yes, it was soft and plush, not what she'd expected. The color was unique, a brilliant white, not the yellowed silver of the elderly. Emma lifted the fall of thick tresses away from her face, smoothing them behind her long, graceful neck. The Wind-Rider was a woman, after a fashion; her previous examination while she treated her wounds established that.

Her cheekbones were high and her eyes held a natural slant, giving her face that feline quality. Her nose was long and flat, something that initially unnerved Emma, particularly when her muzzle - if Emma could indeed call it that - drew back in a grimace or a snarl of warning during her rages. The nostrils were those of a big cat, and the plane of her upper lip was cleft down the middle. What Emma did notice of her mouth was a hint of soft fullness in her lower lip. Her mouth looked capable, she supposed, of smiling widely, but so far the Wind-Rider had shown no such inclination. 

Her body was athletic, possibly from hunting game, and, Emma supposed, from flying. Her limbs were long and taut with muscle and her shoulders were broad. Every inch of skin was covered in fur, the rich, deep brown of mink, contrasting sharply with her hair. Emma smiled at the memory of Rahne and Dani, how their fur felt brushing against her skin during their... bath. Emma never would have guessed that she would be wasp-waisted beneath the homely, plain robe if she hadn't tended her wounds. Lush, full hips and large, ripe breasts made Emma feel a twinge of envy, and something else she couldn't name. A strange shiver swept over her the longer she watched her sleeping hostess, fluttering in her belly, a feeling she couldn't indulge in the heat of her panic.

The urge to touch her was strong, but her slender white hand hovered over her, hesitating. Emma swallowed and snatched it away. The Wind-Rider's breathing changed and her whiskers twitched. Inadvertently, she scanned the creature's surface emotions, worried that she had disturbed her rest-

The Wind-Rider flipped over so quickly that Emma had no time to react, yelping as one taloned hand snapped around her wrist. Emma tumbled forward against her captor, an undignified "OOF!" forced from her chest with the momentum of almost having her arm yanked out of the socket. She landed roughly across the Wind-Rider's body, and she found herself staring into the cloudy, eerie eyes, her breath misting hotly over Emma's face. 

"Good morning," Emma gasped. "It's... it's morning. You can't tell, with it being so dark in here."

"What are you doing in here?"

"Checking on you. I wanted to make sure you were... all right. You, er... seem to have lost your covers." Emma swallowed. "And your robe."

"Lost my robe," the creature growled. "Silly wretch. I always sleep in my natural state."

"You don't... get cold?"

"What do you think? That my fur is just for show? I find myself shamefully out of style during the warmer seasons." Emma tried to catch her breath and her inhalations snatched up the rhythm of the warm, firm body beneath hers. The Wind-Rider had a strong grip on her wrist. 

"Sorry," Emma murmured. "I assume you slept well?"

"Well enough," she allowed with a sigh. The dreams had troubled her, and Ororo was almost relieved that Emma woke her from the frustrating memories.

"I didn't mean to disturb you."

"Ridiculous. You came into my chamber to do just that."

"I wanted to check your wounds."

"Don't fret over them," the Wind-Rider snorted. 

"I want to freshen your bandages and make sure they aren't infected," Emma reminded her. "If you'll just let me up, I can..."

"I don't think so," was the cavalier reply. Emma was rolled to her back before she could finish her sentence. They changed vantage points, and the creature's weight pressed her into the mattress, enveloping Emma in her body heat. A brief yelp escaped her, and amused, feline eyes bore into hers. "I'm not ready to let you up just yet, Emma."

Emma cleared her throat, hating the sudden dryness of her mouth. Her heart pounded as she squirmed slightly, wondering how to get herself out of this predicament. "I can't help you when you do such things, Wind-Rider."

"You can help me more in this position than you can by changing my bandages, darling." The Wind-Rider still gripped Emma's wrists, and her thumbs gently stroked her pulse. "So much more." Emma's cheeks flushed beneath her calculating gaze and she squeezed her eyes shut.

"This is rather... inappropriate."

"Hardly. It suits your role in my home to the letter." Emma's eyes snapped open, and she shook her head.

"My role? Surely this wasn't what you made my father agree to?"

"Not in so many words. The intent was... veiled. Call it a silent clause in the contract."

"But... this... I'm not a courtesan, or..."

"I don't want a courtesan. Please. I've traveled that road, Emma. I want someone fresh and unspoiled, not some jaded wretch with her hand in my purse."

"Yet you would still ply me with luxury," Emma said coldly. The creature's nostrils flared, then she huffed a laugh.

"For all the good it's done me so far. But this gown's a start. It suits you." The soft ivory peignoir and matching wrapper were trimmed in lace; the wrap was concealing, but the neckline of the gown dipped low, revealing the tops of Emma's breasts. They were heaving, and so tempting. Emma squirmed and struggled slightly, but with each shift, her body arched and cleaved to her mistress' warmth. It was... disconcerting.

"I didn't ask for any of this."

"You asked for a rose. A single, white rose that could never rival your beauty. You accepted my gift. I don't ask for much in return."

"You don't realize how much you're truly asking me for," Emma protested. Her breath caught in her throat, and her eyes pricked.

"You don't realize how much you're denying yourself by denying me."

"And what would that be?"

"Pleasure. An opportunity for intimacy. A release from some of your boundaries."

"Now you sound like Shaw," Emma said bitterly.

"Why do I feel so insulted?" the Wind-Rider mused. "Your attentions have been solicited before, Emma?"

"Unsuccessfully. By another who thought to buy me."

"Shaw." The Wind-Rider tried the name, frowning. "The man who tried to ruin your brother?"

"Tried," Emma scoffed. "He broke him."

"No. If he's anything like you, Chris has spirit." The scent of Emma's hair proved too much for Ororo's self-restraint. She dipped her head and inhaled deeply, nuzzling Emma's temple in a light caress. Emma stilled her movements and shivered at the sensation of the creature's warm breath misting over her. Briefly, she lowered the psychic barrier between them and felt a jolt of lust and longing from her, and she moaned in response. The emotions filtered into her consciousness, and Emma felt vulnerable and exposed. 

"There are benefits to being with me, Emma." The Wind-Rider's voice husked against the crest of her ear. Fine whiskers tickled her, causing more shivers.

"I don't consider being locked in a dank cellar a benefit."

"Never again," she vowed, and Emma heard contrition in her tone as she drew back. Those eyes probed hers, searching for all of her secrets, willing her to believe her words. "I was... hasty in my actions."

"You will never lock me up again?"

"Not unless you wish it. I have a fine set of iron shackles tucked in that trunk that you might find intriguing, Emma, if you've a taste for something more exotic." Emma shook her head nervously and stammered. 

"N-not really."

"You might like it." The creature's long, tangled tresses fell over her shoulders in a snowy curtain, the tips brushing Emma's neck. Emma reached for a tendril of it and stroked it, taking the liberty with no guilt this time. Her mistress glanced at her hand, noticing her action, and she released Emma's wrist. "Emma?"

"What?"

"I never thanked you properly for mending my wing."

"You were hurt. I couldn't leave you in such a state."

"You were afraid of me." Ororo sighed, and Emma felt her shame.

"I had reasons." Emma reached up and smoothed back a lock of hair from the creature's face. Intrigued, she touched one of the broad, curling horns, tracing its curve all the way to the tip. The creature's eyes closed, and Emma felt her shiver against her.

"They're sensitive," she murmured. Emma ran the backs of her fingers over the graceful bone again, and the Wind-Rider purred in response. Before Emma could repeat it, her wrist was caught in her mistress' grip once more. "Don't tease."

"Apologies."

"There's one way that you can make amends, sweet." Ororo settled herself against Emma, grinding her pelvis against Emma's suggestively. Emma gasped at the gesture, and at the sensations it caused in her belly. Heat consumed her and her nipples ruched into hard little pebbles, straining against the confines of the fragile silk gown. "I won't hurt you. I'll be gentle. You will know pleasure in this bed, Emma."

"I don't know you," Emma argued, but her voice was showing the strain of trying to resist her urges. "You won't let me in."

"Into my mind? I can't. You're lovely, darling, but you won't trap me that easily." The haze of desire between them dissipated. Ororo's grip on Emma's wrist tightened.

"I'm the one who's trapped," Emma corrected her. The Wind-Rider huffed. Suddenly she took her intoxicating warmth away, and Ororo tugged Emma upright, destroying the last of their rapport. The Wind-Rider's thoughts and emotions were locked up more tightly than before.

"Go, then, if you feel that way. Go bathe. Amuse yourself in the library, if you wish, but stay out of my garden."

"Fine." Emma abandoned her original purpose of checking on her wounds and hurried from the chamber, indignant and frustrated.

Her body remembered the feel of her mistress' soft, sleek fur tickling her skin. Damn it.


	15. Chapter 15

Look to the Sun

Summary: Two different souls, staring out from two different cages. One captor dreams; the other schemes.

Author's Note: I'm trying not to overdo it with letting my subplots take over my main one. I don't want this to just read like a slashy rehash of the Disney version, either.

 

Adrienne cursed and staggered back from the dark plume of smoke that rushed up at her as she lifted the lid from the stew pot. "Damn it! No, no, no!" Burnt again. Her attempts at cooking yielded no successes so far. Cordelia sighed behind her as she entered the kitchen, shaking her head.

"It's apples for dinner again, I assume."

"Stop assuming and come cook, wretch. I tire of it."

"Cooking tires of you, sister. That's the last of the good pots you've ruined, too."

"You've done no better, Cordy." Adrienne fanned the air and coughed, then hurried to open a window shutter to let in some fresh air. The kitchen, without Emma's careful attention, had grown to smell like burnt grease; grime coated every surface, and crumbs littered the unmopped floor. 

"We still have nothing to take to Papa." Cordelia picked up a large knife and began paring the skin from a red apple.

"We'll have to stop at the market, then."

"That's the fifth time this week, sister."

"He'll just be grateful to have something in his belly," Adrienne pointed out. The town jail was pitifully funded, and prisoners often subsisted on whatever provisions their families brought in to them.

"I'm worried for him. He's too frail, Adrienne."

"Don't you think I know that?" she snapped as she scraped the burnt stew into the slop bucket, tsking over the wasted food. Adrienne savagely kicked open the kitchen door, letting the pail bang against the frame as she entered the yard. She wrinkled her nose at the stench of low grunts of the hogs as she gingerly made her way into the barn. "Disgusting things," she grumbled under her breath. "There. Eat!" she commanded them as she dumped the bucket's shabby offerings into the trough. They bustled around it, snorting and lunging for tidbits, bustling up against her skirts. Adrienne shied away from them in distaste. "We can't do anything else for him, Cordy."

"We must!" her sister argued. "How can you just write Papa off as gone for good? We cannot leave him in that dark hole, Adrienne!" Cordelia watched her sister brush past her on her way back into the kitchen to select an apple and knife for herself. Adrienne shook her head and shrugged. 

"What would you have me do?"

"Speak to Donald."

"Are you mad?" Adrienne was aghast. "I won't go to him with my troubles. It would be... unseemly."

"How? The man you've thrown yourself at for months refuses to 'trouble himself' with the fact that your dear papa wrongly rots in jail for murder?" She said nothing of Christopher; both women felt that he had everything to do with their father's predicament, and they refused the mere thought of sympathy. Adrienne felt nothing but disdain for him, owning the birthright to their father's estate, yet being such a weak, useless fop of a man. Oh, how Adrienne loathed him. The only one she despised more was Emma, not only for being her father's favorite, but for giving her sister competition for Donald's eye if she so chose to vie for his attentions. Adrienne was besotted with him, but his eyes wandered; that, she knew.

Mere beauty wasn't enough to engage him, Adrienne knew. Men weren't complicated creatures, to her knowledge. Smile knowingly, dab on some sweet perfume, and you had his attention. But Adrienne knew the way to his jaded heart lay between her legs. Donald's tastes were... uncommon, but they could be satisfied.

What Adrienne had lacked up 'til now was a dowry to ply a betrothal from him. Father had found his fortune again, but without him home to sell his wares at the market, Adrienne and Cordelia were living on dwindling resources. Neither woman was suited to farm life, and their mother, Hazel, had proven spoiled and delicate. She never instilled in them the importance and responsibility of running a household. Winston's last resort, after siring such a disappointing son, was to simply raise Emma as he would a proper boy. He'd spared nothing for her education or in showing her the ways of farm life; she tied a fishing lure as easily as a thread through a needle. Adrienne fumed at the lack of Emma's skills now.

They needed their father back. Adrienne's mind raced with possible solutions of how to free him from his imprisonment. 

She would simply have to talk to Donald, and to Shaw.

*

Emma retired - rather, escaped - to the library once she finished her bath. She managed to weed out a serviceable, practical gown from the finery in the wardrobe that didn't make her feel as though she was on display. The pale blue muslin was sprigged with tiny white flowers. Soft, puffed sleeves and an empire-cut waist made it much more comfortable than the previous selections. Emma braided her hair into a neat plait and settled for a pair of simply brown slippers, perfect for a day that she expected to spend inside.

The small volume of apothecary methods and concoctions occupied her nicely while a cheerful fire crackled in the grate. Santo left her mistress' plate at the door; Emma ate alone in the breakfast nook again, realizing that she was growing tired of it. She preferred company when she dined, remembering meals filled with laughter and stories from her father and brother. Emma would fix Winston his tea and wash the dishes while he regaled her with tales of vendors he'd met and the towns where he'd traveled.

Efforts at busying herself with housework had proven futile. Santo and Manuel had discouraged her from it, and she no sooner finished bathing, dressing, or dining and turned to tidy up than she found the resulting chores done in the blink of an eye. She was tempted to roam the expanse of the house, and she craved a visit to the solarium and garden, but her promise to the Wind-Rider nagged at her, leaving her frustrated. Emma sighed aloud.

The life of a pampered woman - a kept woman - was dreadfully dull. Three days had passed since the Wind-Rider's scuffle with the wolves, and her wing was healing beautifully. Warily, she suffered Emma's careful removal of the sutures and dressing, as well as the young woman's warnings not to fly just yet.

The creature's expression was bland and annoyed. "Surely, you jest."

"Nay. I expect your feet to remain on the ground."

"Perhaps you need to change your expectations." The Wind-Rider's muzzle drew back and she huffed a low growl and something resembling a laugh. "I will fly whenever I choose."

"You will choose to remain on the ground until your wing is properly healed." Emma's blue eyes were cool and shrewd, and her posture stiffened visibly.

In challenge, the creature slowly extended her wings, rustling them impatiently. "That time is now. Step aside." Her demeanor was imperious, and she shooed Emma along with a taloned hand. Emma's mouth dropped open, but out of habit, she moved aside.

"I beg your pardon!"

"It's about time," her mistress huffed. 

"What?"

"You finally beg my pardon. So many sins, so little groveling," the Wind-Rider mused haughtily. Emma made a sound of disgust.

"I won't apologize for keeping you grounded, milady." Emma realized she'd gone too far when those eerie, intelligent slate eyes swirled with glowing white. "Especially if it's for your own good." Emma insinuated herself between Ororo and the window ledge. Mere inches lay between the women. Over Emma's shoulder, the blue sky awaited Ororo, billowing white clouds craving her caress. Her gaze shifted to Emma, planted before her with her arms folded staunchly beneath her breasts.

A dangerous glint flickered in her blue eyes, a razor-prism of rainbow-hued light, bright as a diamond. Ororo's eyes narrowed.

"You. Wouldn't. Dare." The Wind-Rider's wings unfurled in one sharp, quick snap.

"Wouldn't I?"

The feline lips peeled back in a low snarl. That was Emma's only warning before the Wind-Rider pounced. Roughly, Emma felt herself shoved down as the Wind-Rider vaulted over her head, diving neatly through the enormous bay window. "OH!" Emma cried out indignantly, shoulders tingling from the strong, rough grip of her mistress' taloned hands. The deceptively smooth, slick feathers adorned tendons and bones as strong and hard as iron bars, and those wings beat themselves as Emma as the Wind-Rider made her escape.

"No," Emma grunted and her arms flailed in an effort to grab her and interrupt her leap. Her fingers caught the folds of her robe, tangling in the heavy cloth. The Wind-Rider huffed a laugh as she flattened her wings to her back, narrowing herself enough to fit through the window frame, nearly rid of her nagging pet. "Oh, no, you don't!"

"Oh, but I do!" Emma's arms were nearly yanked from their sockets, but she held fast, breath rushing out from her lungs by the shock of being pulled off of her feet. A shriek bubbled out of her throat as the air rushed up around her, and the ground yawned from below. Ororo cursed briefly as she felt the tug at her robe of Emma's weight, but she summoned a buffeting wind to buoy her as she got her bearings and tried out her wings, exercising the atrophied muscles. It was glorious.

Emma closed her eyes against the sight of the trees blurring together below as the Wind-Rider gave into the wind and began to soar. She felt her hair whipping against her face, tearing itself loose from her braid, and she screamed in outrage and terror. "STOP THIS AT ONCE!" Her arms burned and her fingers complained at her demands, but she clutched the garment, fighting for better purchase. Emma managed to catch one of her mistress's ankles, manacling the taut tendons wrapped in lush fur. 

"Enjoying the ride?" the Wind-Rider purred. "I certainly am!"

"Curse you," Emma muttered. 

"You could always let go," she suggested helpfully as she soared higher, craving the sight of the hills from a loftier vantage point.

"No!" Emma's stomach nearly fell out with the shift in altitude, and tears ran in streams from her eyes, flying back into her hair. The wind disturbed her skirts, whipping them around her bare legs. If she wasn't terrified, it would be a heady experience, perhaps even one she would enjoy. For one crucial, spine-rattling moment, Emma felt the creature's ascent falter and jerk, dropping them several yards, and she screamed again. The jaunt nearly made her lose her breakfast. "You must come down! You cannot do this! Your wing isn't ready!"

"Look at us, Emma," the Wind-Rider argued. "This isn't 'ready' to you? You won't steal the sky away from me, little girl. I'm hale and hearty again."

"You should rest!" Emma cried back. "But at the very least, you might put me down!"

"How can you not love it up here?" the Wind-Rider teased. "It's lovely. There's nothing else like it."

"Because I'm afraid, and we could die, and in case you haven't noticed, I don't own a pair of bloody wings! Damn you, take me back down!"

But the Wind-Rider circled neatly, angling on wing-tip, enjoying the rush of air whipping through her hair and the sun beating down on them both. She laughed, a sound Emma still wasn't accustomed to, but it was a reckless, full-bodied sound. Emma's arms felt as though they would give out, and her heart was still pounding. "PLEASE, TAKE US DOWN!" she demanded. "You must!"

"I mustn't do anything of the - EMMA?!?!" Emma's grip failed, and Ororo peered back to find widened, terrified blue eyes as Emma began to plummet away from her. "Damn it! I'm coming, foolish wretch!" She doubled back and dove for her, wings thrashing the air. She summoned a warm jetstream to push her inhumanly fast, arms outstretched for Emma. Emma's body pinwheeled and flailed in the air, and Ororo heard her sobs and curses as she descended, regretting now that she'd taken them so high.

Emma began to tingle, and she wondered if it was her heart beating its last, but she felt her body beginning its change, manifesting her newest gift. Above her, she saw the Wind-Rider dipping, wheeling like a bird of prey, and in that moment, she was fierce and savage, completely in her element. Her eyes glowed bluish-white, marking her an outcast who lost her soul, but Emma felt her emotions, briefly, as the Wind-Rider couldn't shield her mind from her while she was so focused on her task.

Saving Emma's life.

The Wind-Rider's lungs burned and she felt her shoulder blades stinging with effort of beating her wings. They were less than a mile above the ground, and she counted wing beats left until impact. Emma reached for her, fingers flexing, clawing the air to bring her closer to salvation. "OROROOOOOOOOOO!" The creature's face locked itself in a grimace, determination gleaming in her eyes as she thrust herself down, down, and snatched Emma's hand. Emma shrieked at the shock of her grip, disbelieving, and she sobbed with relief. Ororo adjusted her wind to give her leverage, and she caught Emma close. She felt Emma's choking, halting breath against her neck and her hair tickled her lips. Emma was shivering and limp, but her fingers tangled in her robe.

"Are you all right? Emma?" The Wind-Rider barely heard her muffled words.

"Please... take us down, I beg you!" Emma risked drawing back to gaze up into Ororo's face, but instead of reassurance, the creature's face reflected shock, and to Emma's dismay, fear.

"Goddess help me... you silly biiiiiiIIIIIIITTTCCCHHH!" The Wind-Rider's scream gathered volume as they accelerated toward the ground once again, Ororo's arms taxed by Emma's weight, tripled in her now-diamond form, transformed by reflex to shield herself from impact. Emma felt her fear and heard the cacophony of her thoughts, jumbled and frantic.

"You can fly!"

"I have... a cramp!" Her voice was strained, and Emma felt her pain, a burning, knotted bundle of her nerves in her shoulder blade through their newly established empathic link. "Change back! NOW!"

"Bloody hell," Emma muttered. "Wind-Rider?"

"What?!?"

"Please tell me you can swim!" Their shadow over the lake, crystal blue and sparkling, seemed to grow larger the closer their hurtled toward its pristine surface. 

"Swim?!?"

"Make more wind! Fly! FLY!"

The impact knocked them senseless. Ororo's frantic wing beats barely slowed their descent, and her concentration on the weather faltered, nearly broken when Emma had changed. They hit the water like a stone, swallowed up by its bracing depths.

A rush of bubbles swarmed over Emma's flesh, glowing and sparkling in the darkness, and her weight pulled them down. Her heart pounded and her lungs strained, at once thirsty for air. Her thoughts screamed in defiance of the new peril she faced.

Ororo's eyes fluttered open, no longer glowing, and she looked dazed. They widened when she saw Emma in her diamond form and realized they were sinking. The dazzling fractals of her substance were less spectacular, gradually robbed of light the deeper they sank. Her thoughts were a riot of panic, but Emma was relieved that they were still open to her.

_Ororo. Can you take us up?_

_You're still pulling us down. You must change! Now, Emma!_

_Nay. You must let me go. Mutely, the creature shook her head._

_You've gone mad._

_You must. In this form, I do not have to breathe._

_Emma, there is still a chance! Change! We can both swim for it if you are flesh once more._ As she pleaded for her to see reason, Ororo's wings strained, ineffectual amidst the depths. Her legs burned as she kicked, struggling to keep them both afloat.

_Ororo, listen to me. You have another gift, one more helpful to us than your wings. You can move the waves. Do you hear me? You can move them to your will._

_That's ridiculous!_

_Nay. You can. It's there. You've never tried it before, but that ability exists. Let me go. Save yourself._

_I won't leave you! Not here in the dark!_ Emma felt her struggle and a soul-deep anguish. The Wind-Rider's fear of the dark, how she despised feeling trapped, overrode the reason of Emma's words and this new revelation. Emma felt Ororo weakening, and the bubbles drifting out from her mouth decreased. Her breath was nearly gone. Emma shook her head sadly and gently broke the Wind-Rider's grip. Despair choked Ororo as this time, she was the one who fought to retain her grasp as Emma slowly, silently sank away from her. Emma saw horror in her eyes, and she closed hers against the vision, as it broke her heart to cause her such pain. She winced at the creature's psychic scream of grief and outrage, keening and wild.

_We tried_ , Emma mused. _Oh, how we tried..._

If she changed now, she was too deep to reach the surface, no matter how she fought. Emma wasn't a strong enough swimmer, that much she knew. If she remained in her diamond form, there was a slim chance she could navigate the lake's floor and merely walk to shore, but her boast about not needing to breathe was unfounded and poorly justified.

The sudden rush of pressure surrounding her, buffeting her, took the decision out of Emma's hands. She opened her eyes and saw two piercing, glowing orbs penetrating the darkness, boring into her. The Wind-Rider manifested her gift, thanks to the channel opened between them when Emma entered her mind, releasing her knowledge of her ability to bend the currents of water, as well as air. Emma felt herself beginning to rise toward the surface, painstaking inches at a time, and her diamond form protected her from the depths, not suffering from the "bends" her dive would involve. Above her, the Wind-Rider floated, locked in an eerie, yet lovely dance. She molded the currents, manipulating their flow and ripple, gathering the pressure around her. 

_Foolish woman_! Emma cried out to her. _Save yourself!_

_I'm already damned. I won't suffer the hell of a life without you._

Emma tried to master the warring emotions in her chest. She felt her mistress' determination and fear, and certainly, her refusal to accept an early death, coupled with her own, but Emma joined her, sharing her perceptions, feelings, and experiencing the true essence of her need. Emma floundered through remembered loss and anguish, knowing completely the dearth of love, stinging from her past rejection. Emma, during her short life, had known love from her late mother, her spirited and eccentric brother, and her father, short-sighted, foolhardy, yet tender and caring beyond measure. The Wind-Rider's need for love had been thwarted early on, the submission from her devoted staff and her vast riches poor substitutes.

_Don't leave me alone in the dark_. It wasn't a plea; it was a command. _Come back to me, Emma_. 

_Foolish witch_ , Emma chided her, but the currents and pressure buoyed her up as the creature wove them to her will. Her movements sped up, and she slowly ascended even as she struggled for breath. Her wings were limp, barely joining the effort to bring them to the surface, and Emma knew they were spent, their owner having demanded too much of them that morning so soon after her recovery. Lectures could wait for later, provided they were granted the opportunity, or even a next breath.

Emma encouraged her, kicking her own legs and mustering her strength. The lack of air wasn't weakening her, but her effort to stay in contact with Ororo was taxing and consuming. We're nearly there.

_I can bring you up more quickly if you change, Emma_ , she insisted. Emma could feel her strain.

_Your will... be done_ , Emma promised as she submitted to her command, finally. A glow enveloped her as her molecules reverted from glittering diamond to pallid flesh, and Ororo grew alarmed to see how depleted she looked.

_Come to me. Save me. I need your light, Emma_. The void between them narrowed until Emma miraculously reached out for Ororo and grasped her hands. Her breath was nearly gone, and Ororo enjoyed equally grim chances, but they struggled together, propelled by one last thrumming, rough current, finally exploding through the surface of the lake.

"I'm with you! I'm with you!" Emma gasped, choking on the brisk air, too exhausted to draw enough of it into her chest. The Wind-Rider's voice rasping in her ear was equally haggard.

"Swim!"

"I...I don't think I can..." Emma saw spots before her eyes and she felt her grip on her mistress loosen, arms limp and spasming. Ororo watched Emma's eyes roll back in her head and panicked.

"EMMAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" Ororo's murky slate eyes once again swirled with white light, their membranes charged with electricity. She was weak as a baby, but the earth's kiss and her first taste of air fortified her after her immersion. Around her, the wind began to whip the trees, tossing their branches roughly, and the lake became choppy with wavelets and froth. Ororo gathered Emma to her tightly and spoke to the water currents, but they tired of her commands. The wind, however, ever her loyal lover, submitted to her, and she extended her wings to greet it. The wind playfully tugged at their pinions, wrapping around them and yanking both women from the water. They sailed gracelessly onto the shore, landing in a tangled heap. The slick grass and unyielding earth abraded and bruised them, but Ororo never released Emma.

Minutes ticked by as Ororo regained her bearings. The world seemed to spin around her, or perhaps it was the ground beneath her. Her nose twitched as she drew in the scents and the fresh, crisp air filled her lungs. She could smell Emma's damp hair and the waterlogged fabric of her gown, the pungent soil and the fetid tang of the lake water, as well as a hint of wildflowers. "Emma," she croaked. Ororo righted herself, hoisting herself partially upright. She stared down into Emma's pale, unresponsive face. Her hand was shaking as she caressed her cheek, then lightly slapped it. "Emma," she repeated. "Answer me, girl." Emma disobeyed. Ororo grasped her shoulders and shook her. "EMMA!"

Emma heard the voice as if in a dream, but the darkness in her mind was too peaceful, too seductive, and she couldn't resist its pull.

"EMMA! ANSWER ME, DAMN YOU!" Ororo shrieked. She shook her, but she was so limp. Ororo didn't like her pallor, how her time in the freezing water had washed all color from her lips and cheeks, and she could see the delicate vessels in her eyelids. Overhead, the clouds loomed, gathering into a graying, gloomy blanket and locking out the sunlight. The trees rustled and groaned at how strongly they were tossed, and the air crackled with electricity. Ororo knelt beside her and gathered her against her chest, cradling her, crooning over her. "Emma...I command you to wake up, you selfish wretch! Emma, do you hear me?" She rocked her, shaking her, smoothing back the damp, beautiful ropes of blonde hair from her face. "Please... don't leave me alone." The clouds above erupted with thunder and streaks of lightning, and sheets of rain pelted the earth. The scent of petrichor and ozone filled her lungs and assailed her senses, signifying her grief. "I need you," she growled. "Emma. EMMA." Her palm sank to Emma's chest, feeling for any sign of life, but she found no heartbeat. She shook her head in denial and misery, tears streaking through her fur. Her lips peeled back from her teeth, and Ororo roared up at the sky, railing and keening. Thunder rolled and drummed, overruling her heartbeat.

The clouds answered her rage, no longer subservient, and the lightning spun itself in arcs across the darkened palette, streaking it with palest blue and purple. The wind tore at her robe and hair. Ororo roared her fury and was answered again in kind. The lightning surged together into a blossom of fire, then emitted a stream of blinding light, zeroing in on the grieving soul on the ground. It struck her, filling her with its fire and brilliance, suffusing every molecule of her body with energy. She whipped and jerked, muscles and limbs locked in a hideous dance. She never released Emma. For several heart-stopping seconds, she remained a conduit for the sky's fury, unable to discern it from her own.

The current ebbed, exhausting itself, and Ororo collapsed with a tiny whimper. The thunder calmed, no longer fed by her rage, and the rain slowed to the faintest drizzle. Ororo's breath was ragged and hitched, gulping for air. As she mastered the need, she felt something softly graze her cheek.

Emma stared down into her eyes, the last thing she saw before she blacked out.

*

When Emma awoke, the only impression she could form was that she was warm.

Delicious warmth radiated most strongly at her back, and she squirmed against the source. She heard a fire crackling in the grate, and the room she occupied was strangely quiet. Emma had grown accustomed to hearing psychic whisperings of other people's thoughts at low, continuous volume, but it struck her as off-putting to know she wasn't alone, even as she basked in the silence. The warmth at her back stirred, confirming her guess.

A long, slender, fur-covered arm tightened around her waist and she felt a low gust of breath pool over her shoulder where it joined her neck. The Wind-Rider sighed in her sleep, comforted by the presence of the woman in her arms and assured of her safety. Emma's eyes slowly drifted around the room, recognizing the rich furnishings as the Wind-Rider's. Another name came to her lips, unbidden yet familiar.

"Ororo," she murmured aloud. The Wind-Rider moaned in her sleep and smacked her lips, and she shifted against Emma, hammering home the fact that her clothing was gone. She caught sight of her ruined gown puddled on the floor, a damp, torn, soiled wreck. Her mistress' robe lay draped and discarded from a chair beside the vanity, and Emma's cheeks flushed. "Oh, my..."

_She's awake._

Emma picked up the stray thought from slightly above her. Jenny lay balled up on the pillow just above her head, and she stretched and yawned, revealing her tiny pink tongue. She poked Emma's brow with her paw and purred.

_Shush, darling. How did I get here?_ Emma didn't question the logic of speaking with Jenny telepathically; Santo and Manuel had already proven to her that it was possible, even though she wasn't sure how. Yet, weren't most beasties usually mute? How many of them spoke perfect English every day or replied to their names?

_The two of you staggered into the house and just laid where you flopped. Manuel was in a lather, sweet, and truth, so was I._

_Goodness... this is rather unseemly._

_Nothing wrong with it from where I stand,_ Jenny sniffed. _Safe and sound, snug as a bug._

_You know what I mean._

_She nearly lost you. You can't blame her, Emma, surely. Nor those two_. Emma frowned, then craned her neck around, finally noticing the slight weight against her feet. Over the covers lay Rahne and Dani, curled together and slumbering, their thick-furred backs rising and falling in an easy rhythm. _Or me, if you want to be honest. We feared for you. We feared for you both_. Emma relaxed and sagged back down into the pillow. _Your skin was like ice. We had to warm you up. This was simply the best way. Please forgive Mistress for being... familiar_.

_This is nothing new_ , Emma conceded. _I've grown used to liberties being taken since I arrived in your home, kitten._

_You've never offered any of them, then_? Jenny challenged. _You aren't trying very hard to get up_. Emma's eyes were drowsy, and she yawned in contentment. Ororo's hand caressed her belly and she felt her stirring again. They were spooned snugly together, every curve flush and aligned, and it felt natural and right.

_Oh, do shut up_. Emma reached up and scratched Jenny under her chin, receiving more purrs as thanks. She decided to stop arguing, and she sank once more into slumber.

Another couple of hours went by, judging by the angle of the sun in the sky when Emma woke, enjoying the shards of light breaking through between the gap in the curtains. Ororo hadn't budged, and Emma nestled back against her soft bulk, feeling oh, so cozy. The freedom of her nudity and the rich smoothness of the sheets was luxurious, coupled with her hostess' fur tickling her skin. Emma could grow accustomed to it, she mused, provided she could accept some of the Wind-Rider's... compulsions. The struggle for control between them could be maddening...

"Mmmmnnngggh..." Emma felt the warm exhalation of breath against her shoulder as the creature yawned and stretched, momentarily releasing her. She grew alarmed as the sound was cut short by a groan of discomfort.

"Are you all right, Ororo?" Emma felt her stiffen, suddenly, and wondered how she'd erred.

"What did you just call me?"

"Ororo. By your given name." She took away her luscious warmth, to Emma's dismay, and Emma oof'ed as she was rolled to her back more roughly than she would have liked.

"You don't know that name. I've never told you that name." Her expression was put-out and mulish, and Emma didn't like her accusing tone.

"I... I don't know where it came from." The face above her showed conflicting emotions.

"I've never shared it with you."

"It's lovely." Emma's ivory hand reached for her, smoothing back a clump of hair from the feline face. "You needn't have hidden it from me."

"You've been in my mind!"

"There was no other option, milady. My visit was brief." Ororo's eyes darkened with turmoil, pupils dilating as her breath quickened. "I only saw what you shared with me."

"Lies! You're a thief, and a sneak, nosing about where you don't belong!"

"Ororo," Emma whispered. "I stole nothing. I didn't pry. You let me in." Emma stroked her cheek, cradling it. "Do not be angry. Circumstances demanded that we act as one, wouldn't you agree?" She cupped the alien face and spoke gently, soothingly, attempting to soothe her ruffled feathers - her wings were bristling and spreading defensively. Emma knew she had to tread lightly. Ororo scowled, and she attempted to look away, but Emma gripped her jaw and held her gaze. "Forgive me?"

"Do not... do not presume. You may not use that name."

"Why not?"

"Ororo is dead."

"Whuzzat?" Rahne raised her lupine head and shook it to clear the cobwebs away. Beside her, Dani yawned, bristling, and Emma chuckled at two wolves. Her mistress gently removed her hands and rose from the bed, giving Emma her back. Emma sighed, frustrated. The psychic link between them was closed, and she felt bereft of her presence.

"Who's dead?" Dani demanded sleepily.

"No one. Never you mind," Emma told her curtly. "Look at you two lazy bones!"

"That nap did me good," Rahne announced. She stretched, sticking her haunches up in the air and wagging her tail, and Emma giggled at the sight. "Yuir lookin' a sight better, colleen."

"I count myself among the living." Ororo's wings rattled briefly in irritation, and Emma realized her boast came too soon. "I'm lucky."

"Ye both are," Rahne informed them grimly. Black-rimmed eyes pinned Emma, and she could not break her gaze. "Yuir both daft."

"What? I was wrong to demand that she remain on the ground?"

"If ye canna fly yuirsel', and if ye kinna swim, then, aye. Twas foolish tae ride her coattails."

"I can swim... er, I can wade, anyway," Emma insisted. She clutched the covers around herself more snugly. Dani yawned against and padded up to her, stretching out along Emma's side. Emma reached down and scratched behind her ears, and the she-wolf's long tail thumped the thick feather bed.

"Twas foolish," Rahne countered.

"Indeed," Dani agreed. "Santo and Manuel were beside themselves."

"Where are they now?" Ororo inquired from the window, not bothering to turn around. Emma drank in the sight of her, unclothed and mussed from sleep. The sunlight kissed her feathers and set her white hair on fire, and she cut an elegant, regal figure.

"Downstairs, locking up." Emma wanted to voice how peculiar it sounded to her that such a task was left to an enormous black bear and a diminutive bunny, but little could surprise her since she'd arrived in the remarkable household.

Rahne yawned and joined Dani and Emma at the head of the bed. Rahne made herself comfortable, laying her head across Emma's lap, looking to have her ears scratched, too. Emma obliged, setting her tail thumping, too. Emma chuckled. Rahne licked her wrist, and the caress felt ticklish.

Ororo flinched at the sound, and Emma saw her face turn in profile. She emitted a low growl. Dani lifted her head, ears pricking up.

"Mistress?"

"Out," the Wind-Rider hissed.

"But, what-"

"NOW. Gone from me, out of my chamber!"

"Aye, milady," Rahne murmured, chastised. Dani and Rahne both leapt from the bed and disappeared in a twinkling, dragging their tails. Emma stared after them, missing the warmth of their combined bulk. She shivered and burrowed beneath the covers.

"Do you plan to throw me out, as well, mistress?"

"Do not call me that."

"Milady, then. Or 'Wind-Rider,' I suppose." Emma emphasized the name with a flourish of hands and her expression mocked awe. She sighed, and Ororo faced her fully, arms still folded. 

"Do I entertain you?"

"That depends on which side you show me on any given moment. So far, I've seen you amused - at my expense, of course - angry... enraged, really. Demanding. Rude. Aggressive. Lustful. Jealous, today," Emma emphasized, and this was met by another low growl. "Afraid-"

"Ha! Ridiculous." Ororo's wings rustled with annoyance.Emma narrowed her blue eyes and leaned up on her elbows, still concealed by the sheet. 

"Do not lie to a telepath. Even if you don't open your mind to me directly, I can feel whatever you feel." Emma sighed. "I've felt your sorrow."

"That doesn't elevate you in my eyes."

"Of course it doesn't. You've purchased me. Nothing will elevate me, will it?" Emma shook her head wryly. She sank back down to the pillows and pulled the covers up to warm herself, suddenly chilled despite the thick bedding and roaring fire. She gave the Wind-Rider her back, deciding she was finished with the conversation.

She didn't expect the low, slow pad of footsteps across cold marble, or the dip of the bed beneath her. Slender fingers gently scraped her hair back from her cheek, sweeping it aside.

"I can share my wealth with you. I can welcome you into my home, fully. There is very little I wouldn't give you, child. But there are some things you cannot know, and some doors that must remain shut."

"And some indeed have. I haven't tasted your joy, Wind-Rider. For a brief moment, when you flew away from me, there was this heady excitement, so mischievous, almost jubilant. And there was that arrogance that you've shown me, too, that a mere woman could own the sky, and command the sun and rain. But you've never known joy, anymore than you've known a worn out slipper or empty belly, or lacked a fire to warm yourself by at night." Emma sighed again. "I want to pity you."

"You're hardly in a position to pity anyone. You presume to teach me about joy, Emma Grace Frost, but you've known little enough of it in your short life." Emma frowned, but the Wind-Rider continued to stroke her hair. "I felt you, too, and saw things you haven't hurried to share with me. You can't save them all, darling. Christian has to follow his own road, and Adrienne has thrown her lot in with those who would ruin them both." Emma's eyes prickled and she swatted her hand away. "You weren't born to be their salvation, Emma."

"I'm ill-suited to be yours," Emma murmured.

She gave slight resistance when she was rolled to her back once more. Emma glared up at her and was annoyed to find the Wind-Rider offering her something akin to a smile.

"You suit me very well, Emma Grace." Emma opened her mouth to protest, but the Wind-Rider's fingertips brushed over her lips, gently silencing her. "Emma... thank you." She reached for her hand, turned her lips into her soft palm and feathered a kiss over it. "I never thanked you properly for saving my life."

"We've hardly done anything 'properly,' Wind-Rider," Emma reminded her. "Not since we've met."

"Apologies." Ororo nuzzled her pulse and closed her eyes as she inhaled her scent.

"You... apologize?"

"Yes, little rose. I'm sorry."

"I must be daft, or hearing things. I could have sworn you just said you were-" Her words were interrupted by the Wind-Rider's lips, and Emma's attempt at sarcasm faded to a muted mumble. Rational thought left her head, replaced with the feel of the heated kiss, her first. It was a sweet, soft brush against her mouth, insistent but tender. Emma sighed, a low sound of wonder and pleasure, but it was over too soon. She opened hazy blue eyes and met the Wind-Rider's indolent, smug smile.

Another first.

"You heard me correctly."

"I didn't expect that."

"I thought my expectations were transparent, child." Exasperation broke through the first stirrings of arousal, and Emma reached up this time, silencing her hostess.

"You could've taken what you wanted by now, if that was all you expected."

"By force?" Ororo's voice was incredulous. "Am... am I that much of a monster, Emma?" The smile evaporated, and she averted her gaze once more. Emma would have none of it. She sat up, clasping the bedclothes to her breast, and she caressed the Wind-Rider's cheek again.

"No more of a monster than you believe yourself to be, Ororo. I don't see a monster."

"I'm hardly human."

"You're as much of a woman as I am."

"And perhaps something else..."

"Oh, do shut up," Emma snapped. She cupped her face in both hands again and pulled her down into a kiss that stirred Ororo's senses. This time, the Wind-Rider moaned in pleasure, warm breath misting over Emma's lips, her self-deprecation silenced. Emma took her time, stroking her lips, gradually more firmly as she grew accustomed to how she felt. Heat grew in her belly and a warm flush crept over her chest. Emboldened by Ororo's hand sifting through her hair, Emma's lips parted slightly, extending an invitation. Ororo purred, a low, throaty sound of anticipation and pleasure, and her velvety tongue swept inside the recess of her mouth.

Emma's breasts were exposed to the air of the suite when the Wind-Rider gently drew down the bedclothes. She replaced the sheets with her palms, cupping the sumptuous, supple mounds, and she began to knead them, pleased with their weight and shape. "You feel like silk," Ororo murmured into their kiss. Emma moaned with need. Butterflies took wing in her stomach, and she felt new sensations rippling in her core.

"Please," Emma gasped when she let her up for air, lips traveling over the crest of her cheek.

"Please, what? Tell me, little rose." Ororo swept aside her fall of tangled blonde tresses and exposed her ivory throat, then laved it with her tongue. Heat filled Emma's loins.

"You've... you've done this before."

"Yes."

"Show me. Please." Ororo nibbled Emma's sensitive earlobe, and she moaned aloud.

"Tell me." Ororo barely grazed her throat with her sharp teeth, stimulating every nerve she touched. She teased her right nipple into a stiff, ruched nub with her thumb, craving the taste of it.

"Show me... everything."

"You suit me very, very well indeed, Emma Grace." She traced the tendons of her throat with her tongue, lapping at her pulse, and Emma was undone. Her hands wove themselves into the Wind-Rider's hair and caressed her horns, exploring their curve and hardness. Ororo shivered. "They're sensitive."

"You told me," Emma agreed. She felt herself being urged down onto her back, and the rest of the bed clothes fell away. The suite was warm from the fire, and Emma was comfortable enough as her companion closed the gap between them. Emma gasped at the contact of Ororo's body covering hers, fur sliding against bare skin, belly to belly. It was so foreign and new, this intimate press of two bodies. Ororo hadn't been with someone so unschooled and fresh in so long. Emma wasn't a courtesan from the village or a paid companion, blindfolded and waiting for her behind heavy drapes in a darkened chamber, sent away with more coins than her purse could carry before dawn.

She isn't afraid of me. The revelation stunned Ororo. Emma moved beneath her wantonly, craving more of what she had to give. She arched her back, raising her breasts in invitation, and Ororo heeded her desire, trailing her tongue down the valley between them, slowly circling the first mound. Emma clasped her head, urging her to continue.

"Nothing feels like this," she whispered. Her body trembled with every lap of Ororo's tongue. The Wind-Rider's desire mounted, and her hips began to thrust and rut against the young woman beneath her instinctively, heeding the call of the willing flesh. Emma's scent changed, gaining a musky tang that went to Ororo's head. Her head descended and her mouth zeroed in on the waiting, tender nipple. Ororo moaned at her taste as she twirled it on her tongue, and Emma arched into her ministrations. The sensations were wild, maddening, and she needed more. She teased the other peak with skilled fingers. Emma tossed her head back and closed her eyes, savoring the journey the Wind-Rider took her on, knowing it would lead to sweet ruin.

Ororo dawdled and played, plucking at her, devouring her sweetness. It had been too long. She caressed the arch of Emma's torso, counting her ribs with her caress. She continued to suckle her and shifted her weight off of her, lying alongside her and staring down the smooth plane of her belly. She caressed it, circling the tiny indent of her navel. Emma twitched and shivered. "Please," she begged.

"Yes, Emma," she promised. "Everything." Emma strained and sucked in a desperate breath when those fingers grazed her sex, exploring the soft mound of sandy gold curls. Wanton, unladylike sounds worked their way out of Emma's chest. Ororo's talons barely grazed her, combing through her nest, raking over the sensitive nerves. She bucked into the insistent suck of the creature's mouth, and her thighs quivered. "Open your legs for me, Emma. That's it. Let me touch you."

"It's too much."

"No. Feel me. Don't hide." She caressed the silky flesh of her inner thigh, and Emma moaned for more. "Let me make love to you, Emma."

"I don't know how."

"Learn, now." She caressed her, cupping and kneading the sweet mound. "You've never played before? At night, when you're along in your bed? Or taking a bath?"

"Not... so much. I... didn't have anything to inspire me. I've... I've read books, but... I couldn't relate."

"Ah." It added up. "Romance novels?"

"Y-yes." Ororo's fingers found the tiny pearl hooded by the folds of her sex, and she stroked it with accuracy borne of experience.

"With men making love to women."

"Yes. Those."

"That, Emma, is why you've remained so uninspired." She withdrew her hand and licked a warm sheen of moisture from her fingertip. "Oh, Emma, you've been so deprived..." Emma whimpered, and she mercifully resumed her touch, exploring her, teaching her. Emma's thighs spread eagerly, giving her room to move. Ororo gifted her breast with one last kiss and gazed into her face. Emma was flushed with pleasure, face suffused with color, hair mussed and spread across the pillows. Her breathing was uneven, hitching and exhaling on moans of delight with each stroke of Ororo's hand. "Emma, you're made for this."

"Please, don't stop."

"Never." Ororo kissed the soft, quivering belly, teasing her navel with her tongue. "I'm going to treat you so well." Emma closed her eyes and opened herself to the sensations, lust overwhelming her. Ororo's fingers toyed with her pearl, stroking her folds, parting them, and a fresh wave of pleasure washed over her. Tension coiled in her belly and her lower spine tingled. Emma couldn't name what was happening to her body, but every signal of pleasure originated from the core of her womanhood, up until now untapped and never explored. If she'd only known!

"So beautiful," Ororo murmured, eyes consuming the sight of her in the throes of passion. Emma felt the bed shift, wondering why she was moving between her thighs, but she fit there easily, and she felt the mounds of Ororo's breasts pressed against her thighs, parting them like a wedge. She breathed over Emma's belly, kissing a trail down to Emma's treasure. "I'm going to treat you well, Emma," she repeated.

"What... oh." Emma's voice shrank to a whimper at the first stroke of Ororo's lips against the weeping petals of her sex, slick with arousal and need. "Oh. Ohh..."

"Mmmmm..." Ororo purred and moaned at the musky tang flowing over her tongue. Emma was so soft and warm; it was like coming home. She massaged the tiny nubbin and dipped her tongue into the folds, lapping at her and transporting her to a place where pleasure lived. Emma grasped the pillow beneath her head, pulling the sides against her ears. She moaned and wailed, paying little heed to discretion. Ororo didn't care who heard; her servants were familiar with their mistress' habits; the sounds of flagrant lovemaking weren't new to them, certainly, but it had been a long time since the Wind-Rider's bed creaked so loudly. Emma thrust and ground herself into the source of that wild, hot wetness stroking her so expertly.

"Nnnnnggg..." Ororo couldn't get enough of her. In consuming her flesh, she, too, was consumed. She felt her own dampness and she wasn't far from her own fulfillment. Ororo wanted to push Emma farther, tip her over the edge, and she was oh, so close. Emma's hands drifted to her breasts, and she plucked at her nipples until Ororo stopped her, taking the task away from her. The tips were stiff and rosy red; Ororo twisted and tugged at them in concert with the strokes of her tongue, thrusting more deeply into her. Emma bucked and bit her knuckles against crying out any louder.

"No. Don't hold yourself back. I want to hear you, sweet. Give in to it. Let me hear how good it feels." Her hand lowered, caressing the planes of her body and finding her pearl once more. She kneaded it with firmer pressure, and it was turgid and hot. Ororo breathed into Emma' flesh, baptizing it, owning it, until the waves of sensation swept Emma away. Her climax crashed over her like a storm, battering her senseless. Emma couldn't think. She could only feel, only drift on wave after wave of pleasure, fed by shared lust. She bathed in Ororo's desire for her, in her complete focus on the task of making love to her.

Emma lay panting and fulfilled, quivering and limp. Ororo kissed her thigh. "How was it?"

"Oh..."

"Speechless?"

Lovely. That was lovely. A slow smile graced Ororo's face.

"Emma?"

"Mm?"

"We're not done." Emma's eyes flew open.

"There's more?" Her voice was confused, but a smile tugged at her lips. Ororo nodded solemnly.

"You sound surprised." Ororo eased herself against her, and Emma sighed up into her kiss. Ororo moaned in pleasure as Emma's hand stroked the curve of her horn and caressed her peaked ear. "Naughty girl..."

"Show me," Emma pleaded. Ororo devoured her lips, and Emma lost herself in the kiss, welcoming the stroke of her tongue. Ororo ground against her, finding Emma's sex once again, and Emma's eyes widened at the sensation of friction. The brush of her fur against her skin was decadent, and she craved it.

"I want to know all of you, Emma Grace."

"Yes..."

"I want to make you lose yourself."

"Yes! Please... oh, please." Emma couldn't bear it, being stimulated so soon after her climax, but she felt pleasure building again. Her hands roamed over Ororo's body, stroking and combing through her lush fur. Her breasts intrigued her, and Emma reached down, cupping one. She gently squeezed it, and Ororo's eyes shuttered in pleasure.

"Minx..."

"I want to touch you."

"After," she told her through gritted teeth. Ororo growled at the tension in her loins. She pressed herself into her more insistently, needing more friction, and it had the desired result. Emma's hips bucked, finding her rhythm, and they strained against each other, giving in to passion once more. Ororo's muscles burned as she moved, wreaking sweet havoc in Emma's body. The room filled with the scent of their combined musk, and both of them began to sweat. Emma's hands grasped Ororo's hips, stroking over the generous hills of her ass. Silently, she gripped her harder, urging her to move faster. Ororo heeded her call, taking her farther, pushing her faster, letting the fire burn between them and taking away all reason...

Ororo's moans deepened into husky, ragged cries of fulfillment. "Now, Emma!" Her climax broke, and as her muscles faltered, Emma pushed her over the edge, moving and grinding beneath her and taking her the rest of the way. Ororo's eyes widened and her back arched; spasms of pleasure worked their way down her spine, pooling in her core as she rutted against Emma, stealing the last frissons of pleasure and riding them out. She collapsed, panting and spent; beneath her, she felt Emma quivering again, once more fulfilled.

The suite was filled with the sounds of both women catching their breath and the crackling of the fire. Outside, Emma heard the patter of a gentle rain.

"Is that your doing?" she rasped.

"Completely unintentional. Just enough to fill the creeks."

"How... wondrous," Emma murmured. Ororo lay against her, head nestled at Emma's bosom, their limbs comfortably tangled.

"You suit me very, very well, Emma." They listened to the low slap of raindrops against the roof and the low breeze until they both dozed off.

The tinkling strains of a four-piece orchestra playing a waltz filled Ororo's dreams, haunted by girlish laughter and blue eyes.

 

*

Shaw nodded gruffly to his butler as the elderly man let him into the foyer of his estate and took his broad-brimmed black hat and overcoat. His footsteps were heavy with annoyance as Jarvis explained that tea had already been set in anticipation of his arrival.

"Brandy," Shaw demanded. "I need something more substantial than tea tonight."

"Very good, sir."

"Turn down the bed."

"As you wish." The man dithered over him and brought him his pipe. Jarvis wheeled the tea cart in and set it up beside the large, crimson, damask-upholstered chair with black nailhead studs. Shaw's study was elegantly furnished, the walls hung with paintings in silver frames. A framed daguerreotype of Shaw's father hung above the fireplace, and Shaw imagined the elder man was smirking at him, unsympathetic to his plight.

Shaw hated funerals. He'd buried two of his men, and had stood in the mud as the village pastor gave them last rites. He despised the rain, his only consolation being the increase in revenue at his club as patrons took shelter at his gaming tables and bought more of his whiskey. Shaw offered Jase's mother and sister's shallow, insincere solace at the gravesite, and they wept all over him, making him cringe. Jase's mother insisted that they would pay him back his generosity, which allowed them to bury Jase in style, including an engraved headstone.

It was money he could easily make back, but it posed an inconvenience, more than anything else. The loss of his two men distracted him from his goal.

There was still no word of Emma Frost. Shaw's investigators that he'd hired had turned up nothing so far. They combed through the neighboring three villages, along the seashore, and throughout the forest with no success. Shaw had a sinking suspicion that Christian, that weak, simpering wretch, hadn't been lying...

... except for the condition of Emma's new "owner." Sebastian refused to accept the man's wild tale of a "creature" whom his father had bargained with.

"He thinks me a fool," he muttered as he settled back into his chair. Jarvis removed his muddy boots and propped his feet on the small, tasseled hassock. Jarvis handed him a small snifter and filled it with the fragrant brandy. Shaw stared into the glass, watching the reflection of the fire flickering on its surface as the amber liquid warmed.

"Will that be all, milord?"

"That will do."

"Good evening, sir." Jarvis backed out, taking his boots with him to be polished. Shaw sighed and helped himself to a wedge of cheese. He remembered Christian's demeanor, stubborn, yet desperate. It had taken forever to beat the truth out of him, but Shaw found it extraordinary. Laughable.

He claimed the woman could fly. Preposterous. Shaw had met remarkable people in his travels, and on occasion, met individuals with strange abilities that challenged his sense of logic, even beggared his imagination. But flight... wings... 

Ridiculous. Even more fantastic was his claim that she bore the visage of a beast, with the muzzle and fur of a lion, and the eyes of a snake. The description he gave recalled an illustration in one of Shaw's texts from his boyhood depicting a gryphon, mythologic and fantastic. The creature gave him nightmares as a child, but he chuckled wryly now and shook his head.

Christian's face bore fresh bruises and a cut lip when Shaw tired of watching Donald exhaust himself. The memory made Shaw smile.

*

"Leave him. Let him be." Donald threw Christian aside and gave him one last kick in the ribs. Christian crawled miserably toward the corner of the tiny chamber. The flickering of the small lantern's insufficient flame cast Shaw's face in an eerie light, darkening the shadows beneath his eyes and the hollows of his cheeks, rendering his face into a demonic mask. Shaw tutted.

"Really, Christian. This simply won't do."

"Emma's... gone to you," Chris spat. Flecks of blood sprayed from his lips with his words, staining the filthy floor. "You'll gain nothing from me, or my father." Shaw shrugged.

"We're of different minds on that topic, Christian. Different minds, indeed. I plan to get exactly what I need from your father. The guards tell me he's in a delicate state since he arrived here." Christian's face contorted with anguish.

"What have you done to him? Bastard!" he cried. Donald kicked him in the chest, and he rolled onto his back with the wind knocked from him. Breathing was torture, and he was trembling from the pain.

"Nothing, friend. I have Winston's best interests at heart! He's old and frail, and this is no place for him to spend his final days. He deserves the comforts of somewhere kinder than this, and the comforts that money can buy." Shaw began to pare his nails with a small belt knife as he spoke. "I've reserved him a bed at the sanatorium."

"WHAT? No! You mustn't! You can't! Go to hell, Shaw!"

"Hell is for those with no resources, Chris, and no imagination. I'm planning to visit your father and to share his new, good fortune. It's such a pity to waste away behind these dank walls, isn't it, with no contact from the outside. I expect we will enjoy a fond reunion, Christian." Shaw nodded to Donald, who knocked on the door, beckoning to the guards. "We're done here," he called out, "take him back."

"Monster," Christian rasped. "Leave him alone!"

"Worry not for your family, Christian. Your father will receive his salvation, even as you rot. And Emma will be reunited with her bridegroom."


	16. Bathing, and Coming Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ororo and Emma grow closer, with some misgivings. Sebastian realizes that Christian and his father may be telling the truth, bringing him closer to his prize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. It’s been forever since I last updated this. I’ve got writer’s block like a mutha****a. In the meantime, if you want a simplified version of a fic with the same Beauty and the Beast theme and you like m/m slash, go to my story Unbecoming Behavior. It’s a heck of a lot closer to being finished. I’m sorry this is dragging. I lost my momentum and life kinda sucks. Happy reading and creating to you.

Ororo stirred awake and reached for Emma, but the space beside her in the enormous bed was empty, the sheets rapidly cooling. She frowned and growled under her breath.

“Brat.” Ororo sat up and stretched, flexing and extending her wings to their full span and relishing the slight ache in her muscles. She was well rested and refreshed, and her body remembered the feel of Emma’s beneath it, wrapped around it, nestled in her sweet scent and flawlessly smooth skin. Emma’s scent was still fresh, and Ororo fetched her robe and shrugged into it, more out of habit than a need to cover herself. She padded down the hall, following Emma’s trail. 

Ororo exited the castle through the solarium, bringing her out into the garden, but surprisingly, she wasn’t there, either. But she was outside.

“Bad girl,” Ororo mused. “Where could you be, little rose?” Ororo decided she could see more from the sky than she could from the ground, and she hurled herself aloft. She circled the grounds, and then decided to head toward the lake.

Her efforts were rewarded when she saw a small figure in the shallows, just past the shade thrown by the tall oak trees. Emma’s blonde hair shone in the sunlight, making her easy to spot. And, Ororo noticed, she was nude as the day she was born. Anticipation stirred in her belly, and she suddenly ached to touch her again. Ororo’s wings flattened as she glided down to greet her new bedmate.

“Hullo,” she greeted as she drew near, then hovered above the lake on her winds. The breeze tossed her hair about her leonine face, and her eyes were glowing milky white. Emma looked up from her ablutions, still wringing out her wet hair.

Ororo looked fearsome and magnificent, silhouetted by the sun. “Good morning, Wind-Rider,” Emma drawled with a smirk. She looked very, very pleased with herself, and very appetizing. Her skin was rosy and gleaming from her swim, droplets beading up and rolling down the slopes of her breasts and dripping from their tips. Ororo felt a hunger growing inside of her again, and she wanted this mischievous farm girl more than her next breath.

“Are we back to that again?”

“Ororo, then.” Emma tossed the damp hank of her hair back over her shoulder and held her arms open. “You’re overdressed for a swim.” Ororo smiled, and a moment later her robe went sailing through the air, landing just shy of the water lapping the shore. Ororo glided the rest of the way down to the water and sank into it with a low splash.

“I thought you would have had enough of the water.”

“I’d rather enjoy it this way.” Emma reached for her, stroking back Ororo’s hair from her face, fingers combing through the tangled locks. “We need to brush this.”

“If you like.” It was a task that she seldom bothered with, unless she felt like weaving it into a simple braid while she was working with her herbs in the kitchen or out in her garden.

“It’s lovely.” And it was. Ororo’s eyes swirled back from their glowing state, and Emma noticed their color had changed. “Blue,” she murmured. “Ororo, your eyes… they’re blue.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m used to seeing them gray.” Emma framed her face between her palms, studying Ororo’s eyes, now the color of sapphires. Ororo leaned into her caress, nuzzling her palm.

“You’re staring.”

“I can’t help it.” Emma felt Ororo’s hands find her waist under the tepid water and draw her close, and she tilted her face up to her kiss, sighing into it.

Ororo’s emotions were a confusing maelstrom as their bodies found each other again. She’d felt disappointment, heavy and thick in her chest when she woke up in her beastly state. She remembered the fairy’s curse and her stipulation: She had to find someone to _love_ her. Intimate relations were no substitute, to her regret. 

Yet there was an attraction between them, a connection that only deepened after their brush with death. Ororo felt Emma hovering outside the walls of her mind, her emotions and impressions leaking through in increments, and she knew Emma was receiving the same from her. She no longer felt vulnerable, or violated by it, which confused her. How did Emma slip past her defenses?

And why didn’t she mind? Why did it feel like the part of her that she never knew was missing had been returned to her?

Emma sensed that her mistress was troubled and distracted, despite the playful intent of her visit. When they broke the kiss –reluctantly – she asked her, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter.” 

“You’re sure?” The air around them dropped a couple of degrees, and Emma shivered at the sudden winds that rattled the trees, small, puffy clouds drifting across the sky where there had been none a moment ago. “Brrrrr…”

“Apologies, Emma.” With a brief wave of her hand, Ororo brought the currents under her control and warmed the air. Emma chuckled.

“You’re a terrible liar. But I won’t hold it against you.”

“How long have you been out here, that you haven’t even washed your hair yet?” Emma smirked knowingly.

“Perhaps I was waiting for you to get here and do it for me.” Ororo waited for Emma to retrieve her soap from the basket she’d left on the shore and to wade back to her in the deep. Within minutes, she was sighing in contentment as Ororo’s fingers combed through the thick masses of blonde hair, working it into a foamy lather and kneading her scalp.

“Don’t waste the soap,” Ororo suggested, letting her fingers trail foam down Emma’s throat and the crest of her shoulder. Emma shivered. 

“Not one drop.” She leaned back against Ororo and purred at the feel of her slick hands gliding over her skin, smoothing the thick foam over her curves, cupping her breasts. She teased Emma’s nipple with her fingertip, which had already peaked just from the cool temperature of the water, but that now ached with desire. Emma drifted on the myriad sensations and on Ororo’s arousal, leaking through their rapport, and she wanted to lose herself in it completely. Ororo made her tip her head back to rinse.

“What would you like to do today?” Emma asked once she surfaced and wiped her closed eyes, ridding them of soapy residue.

“This,” Ororo admitted. “And perhaps breakfast.”

“Doesn’t sound very ambitious.” Emma turned to face her, and Ororo’s lips curled in amusement. “What?”

“When I say ‘breakfast,’ I mean that I’m going to take you back to bed and lick if off of your skin. Slowly.” Emma’s eyes dilated with desire.

“Let’s hurry up and wash your hair.”

*

There were benefits to living with a weather witch. Ororo dried them off quickly with warm, whirling gusts of wind that buffeted them, caressing skin and whipping long tresses free of moisture. They were tousled and refreshed as they headed back inside, clothing bundled in their arms. There was no reason for modesty between them now. Emma carried on their conversation telepathically as they went upstairs, and Emma felt joy and comfort envelop her, so pleased that Ororo trusted her with the psychic link.

…to an extent. There were still closed doors in the Wind-Rider’s mind, and Emma knew it was futile to try to worm her way in past those defenses. But in the meantime, Emma saw snippets of memories, just brief impressions, almost like echoes of experiences she was having, but through Ororo’s eyes. After a while, it was hard to discern whose memories they were. 

They raided the kitchen and raced each other back upstairs, loaded down with treats. Emma grinned wickedly at Ororo from across the room, brandishing a small pot of honey that she lifted from her basket. “You were saying something about breakfast.”

“You just bathed. You’ll just get all sticky,” Ororo chided, but her eyes were sparkling with mischief, and the corner of her mouth curled up in a little smirk.

“The lake isn’t going anywhere. It’ll still be out there… later,” Emma suggested smoothly. She dangled the honey pot off of one finger by its looped handle and sashayed toward her mistress, staring up at her through her lashes. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Yes. And you’re awful.”

“Terrible,” Emma agreed, tutting and trying to force her face into serious lines. Ororo rolled her eyes and sighed.

“What am I to do with you, naughty rose?”

“Might be easier to decide after breakfast, Mistress.” Ororo’s eyes dilated, and Emma felt her own pulse quickening at the building need she sensed in the other woman’s mind, matched by her own.

She didn’t remember how they made it to the bed, a frenzied scramble of limbs, hands and mouths. Emma grunted as she landed back against the cool sheets that still smelled like them, then groaned with desire as Ororo covered her body with hers, soft fur rasping against her skin. Emma did a quick mental scan of the room, then of the whole wing of the house. None of Ororo’s servants were creeping about, which was a relief, not even Jenny. Emma almost missed the she-cat’s purred jests and smug looks, but she could make herself scarce a while longer. Ororo’s kisses were firm and insistent, coaxing desperate sounds from Emma’s throat. She felt the warm, sensual drizzle of honey being poured over her skin, and Emma huffed a laugh, feeling Ororo smile against her mouth.

“Minx! You weren’t joking?!?”

“I never joke.”

“Liar.”

“Oh, look, I missed a spot…” Ororo lapped up the trail of amber sweetness wending its way over the curve of Emma’s breast, her feline tongue rasping over her skin. Emma’s hands gripped Ororo’s horns, holding her close as she lost herself in pleasure. Surely she would regret being a sticky mess, and she hated to think of Ororo getting the stuff in her nice, clean fur, but it couldn’t be helped, could it? 

Oh, no. Certainly not. Emma’s stiff, tourmaline pinky nipple was covered in another golden stream, and Ororo swirled her tongue around it, over and over, to catch every last drop. “So sweet,” Ororo murmured around her flesh. “You always taste so good, Rose.” Emma couldn’t form a reply – even a coherent thought – amidst the havoc her mistress wrought with her mouth. “I can’t get enough of you…” Emma shivered at her words as those skilled, taloned fingers gently plucked at her, teasing sensitive flesh and caressing her. She mapped out Emma’s body slowly, descending over her curves, continuing to lick over each contour and plane. She was so intent, so lost in her, that Ororo didn’t realize how much of her desire and need was transmitting to Emma through their link; as soon as Emma could form the impression that she enjoyed her warm breath misting over her navel, Ororo would lap at the graceful little indent a puff a breath of air over it, making her belly quiver. They were in tune with each other as they indolently made love again. Emma’s fingers tangled in Ororo’s long white hair, combing through the silky mass, letting it brush over her skin, sticking to her slightly from the honey…

It was decadent. It overloaded her senses. Emma’s blue eyes shuttered as her low mewls and whimpers filled the room. “You tease,” Emma husked. Ororo flicked the tip of her tongue against the hood of Emma’s sex, barely stroking the little pearl within. Ororo tsked, then hummed into her flesh. She drizzled more honey over the crease of Emma’s hip, letting it trickle over her inner thigh. “No. Oh, no… you wouldn’t… Ororo… oh, no, ORORO…!”

“Oh…yes.” _Yes._ The thought wrapped around Emma’s consciousness like a blanket.

_Minx._ She quivered and shuddered, head bucking back into the pillow as Ororo pulled long, loud moans from her. Emma prayed the other occupants of the castle weren’t too close by, or she would never be able to look any of them in their little, beady eyes again. Ororo lapped lazy circles over her inner thigh, spreading both of them farther apart.

“I hope you didn’t have any other plans today.” The last two words were muffled, and Emma whimpered again as those lips found her glistening, parted folds. Emma curled her fingers in Ororo’s hair, clenching it to anchor her there.

“No,” she breathed. It was the last word she could manage before Ororo made good on her earlier promise and had a very leisurely… breakfast.

 

Emma barely remembered falling asleep. She drifted in and out of a replete stupor with Ororo’s body curled around hers. By the time she woke, her skin, as guaranteed, was very sticky. She moaned and smacked her lips in annoyance, though, at the feel of something cool and damp swishing over her skin.

“Nnnnnngh… what…?”

“I hated to wake you,” Ororo murmured as she stroked her skin with the washcloth. “But I knew you couldn’t be comfortable like that.”

“What… time is it?”

“Well after noon, dear.”

“Goodness… lost track.”

“You were occupied.” Emma cracked open her eyes, and her lips twisted when she saw Ororo’s greeting smirk.

“Oh, was I?”

“Mm-hmmm…” Ororo chucked the cloth into the basin on the bedside table and she stretched out alongside her. She chuckled when she heard Emma’s stomach growl.

“At least one of us ate,” Emma accused, yawning. 

“There’s still plenty.” Ororo kissed her temple, then grinned when Emma reached for her, slim hand wrapping around her nape and drawing her down to her. The kiss was languorous and sated, and Ororo’s arm wrapped around her possessively. “Let me feed you.”

They lounged under the covers, feeding each other grapes and cheese. Emma drizzled some honey on a piece of bread for herself, this time, and it took the edge off of her hunger. She sighed in contentment. “This is nice.”

“You never just have a lie-in? With breakfast in bed?”

“Honestly?” Ororo nodded. Emma shook her head, shrugging. “No.”

“How… deprived you’ve been.” Ororo’s tone suggested that a crime had been committed. Emma chuckled.

“No time for lying about on a farm. But I certainly nursed Chris and my sisters through hangovers, and I brought many a breakfast upstairs to them.”

“You’re too good to them.” Ororo didn’t say out loud that she was glad she had stolen Emma from Winston, if that was the sort of thing her life regularly entailed within his grip. The sentiment, unspoken, still lingered between them.

“Youngest daughter. End of the pecking order.”

“Ridiculous. The youngest child is supposed to be spoiled rotten.”

“Were you?”

“Yes.”

“Youngest?”

“No. I was an only child.” Ororo toyed with a grape branch that had been stripped bare of fruit and began to pick it apart. “But I never lacked for anything.”

“Did your parents love you?”

Emma watched a shadow fall over Ororo’s face, and the sky outside darkened in tandem, clouds marring the perfect blue.

“I often ask myself that.” She propped herself up on her elbow and stared into Emma’s eyes. “I was a ‘lonely only.’ It might have been for the best.”

“Why?”

“Can we talk about something else?” Emma felt the subtle shift between them, and the slight “push” back that Ororo’s mind gave hers.

“Bath?” 

Ororo’s eyes lit up. “Of course!” 

They took a different route, and Emma placed her safety in Ororo’s hands, trusting her to fly her to a different “swimming hole.” Ororo stopped her reach for her dress. 

“Are you mad? We can’t just-“

“Oh, but we can.” Emma wasn’t sure she liked the twinkle in her eye, but she took Ororo’s hand and let her lead her to the balcony. The winds outside were already stirring up again, more clouds drifting overhead. But the drafts were warm, and the sky was inviting, calling to them. “You don’t have to worry.” Ororo’s eyes flashed white, and they were hurled aloft. She held onto Ororo tightly and listened to the sharp snaps of her wings beating the air in mighty strokes. Emma’s heart was pounding in her chest, but she trusted her, knew that she would never let her fall this time, and in a brief flash of insight, felt Ororo’s emotions leaking into her consciousness…

She would never harm Emma, her precious rose. They soared over the trees, higher and higher into the sky, and Emma felt slightly dizzy with the altitude. “Won’t people be able to still see us?” She felt guilty for shouting in Ororo’s ear, before belatedly realizing she didn’t have to. Ororo huffed a laugh.

_Watch_.

She flew them into a mass of clouds, and Emma shrieked in surprise as it engulfed them in so much misty white. The cold moisture was a shock, but Ororo was mindful of her, holding her more tightly against her body and generating warm air currents to keep her comfortable. They coasted across the sky, wrapped in the cloud’s cover. Emma’s breath was taken away by the view from above, what she could see of it through the mist. Trees, steeples, rivers, cliffs, all of it so small from that high up.

_It’s so beautiful._

Ororo smiled and nodded.

_Yet you put it all to shame._

Emma didn’t know how far they’d flown, but when the mist cleared as they began their descent, she saw a small grotto surrounded by cliffs and a sparkling waterfall. The humid scents of hissing water and tropical plants filled Emma’s senses. “What is that?” Emma breathed.

“You’ll love it,” Ororo promised. “Time for that bath, Emma!” They were looming closer to the water’s surface, their shadow growing larger as they went down. Emma suddenly felt the winds dying down, and her eyes grow round.

“Ororo… shouldn’t we be… Ororo! Please! Flap! FLY!” They were several yards over the water’s surface. Ororo’s grin was wicked this time.

“Time for a big splash!”

“Oh, no… NO! NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Emma’s voice became a shriek of dismay that cut off abruptly in a rush of bubbles as they splashed down. The water was brisk and unforgiving, and Emma regretted having no layer of clothing between it and her vulnerable flesh.

Yet when they kicked and stroked their way to the surface, she felt exhilarated and fresh. Emma tread water as she waited for Ororo’s horned head to surface, and when Ororo appeared, she splashed a wave of water in her direction, indignant.

“You… YOU! You BEAST!” Ororo let out a peal of laughter, and Emma splashed her again before she began to swim toward the shallows.

“You can’t be angry with me,” she insisted. “No one saw us. We’re here, all in one piece, and I promised you a bath. It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but you’re horrible to frighten me like that!”

“Were you really that frightened? Emma?” She swam after her, breaststroking easily, wings sculling along behind her. Ororo’s fur was slicked down and plastered to her skin. Emma’s hair hung in damp golden runnels down her face and back; she flicked a lock of it out of her eyes as she waded toward the water’s edge.

“It’s colder than the lake.”

“It’s coming from the sea. We’re alone here,” Ororo explained. “Can’t you smell the surf?” She caught up to her and grabbed her hand. “Emma, don’t be angry, sweetie. I was only playing.”

“You know how I feel about heights. And being dropped. And dunked. And scared witless. And did I mention HEIGHTS?”

“It wasn’t that high up.” Ororo’s lips curled. “Emma… come with me. Don’t get out yet. You need to experience this first.” She waded them towards the waterfall, and its roar made conversation as difficult between them as the winds had. “It feels amazing,” she promised.

The rush of water over her skin, pounding against her muscles and pouring through her hair was apology enough. Emma let it pour over her and wallowed in it, lost in this new bliss. The two women swam and waded, enjoying their shower, feeling the water beat down on them in time with their hearts. Ororo kissed her, enveloping her, and Emma clung to her, wrapped within the cocoon of her black wings.

They spent the rest of the afternoon wading, swimming, and diving off the cliffs into the small tide pool. They lolled on the beach in the sun, letting it warm their skin, pushing their toes into the sand. Emma sighed in contentment.

“You can do so many amazing things. How did you know about this place?”

“My father used to bring us here when I was a girl. He had a boat. He used to sail us out here whenever the weather was warm enough. Once I was old enough, I found my own way out here, from the air. Sometimes I come here when I need some time to myself, to just think. It’s peaceful.”

“Ororo… do you ever get lonely?”

“I think you know the answer to that question by now, Emma.” Ororo reached out and poked her in the side, making her squeal. She took umbrage by reaching for a handful of sand and tossing it over Ororo’s belly. “ACKKK!”

“Seriously. I was being serious.”

“Well, you need to stop that. Life’s too short.” Ororo leaned up, half-reclined as she stared out at the water. “My house isn’t empty. Not really. I have my servants to talk to, at any rate, but… it’s…”

“Not the same as having a person. Someone to play chess with. Someone to walk with you in the garden.” 

“Didn’t I tell you not to read my thoughts?”

“Hard not to, when you just throw them out there,” Emma accused. 

“Someone to kiss.” Ororo added to Emma’s list, reaching out to twirl a lock of Emma’s hair around her finger. “Someone to warm my sheets.” Emma felt arousal pooling in her belly again with the look Ororo was giving her, and she laid back when Ororo leaned over her, stroking her hair back from her face.

“I see why it wouldn’t be the same.” Emma reached for her, and Ororo sank down into her softness and inviting scent, all warm pheromones and sea salt, and she kissed Emma like she couldn’t get enough.

*

Shaw contemplated Christian’s slumped, resting form through the prison bars and sighed. His flesh was badly bruised and bare; Shaw had ordered him stripped and beaten again after another interrogation that afternoon. When he was dragged back into his cell, the guards thrust him inside callously, letting him collapse, barely conscious. 

It seemed he was no closer to finding his future bride. The situation was making him irritable.

“I’d hoped for a more accommodating brother-in-law,” Shaw mused. Christian stirred, then flinched. “Your father is more than ready to welcome me into the family.”

“Leave… him alone,” Christian slurred.

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s charming company once you get him to open up.” Christian groaned, fists clenched futilely as he tried to sit up. His eyes were full of venom when he stared up at Shaw, owning no shame despite his naked state. “We’ve had some nice chats.”

“You’re a fool to believe an old man’s ramblings, Shaw.”

“He’s spry and clever for an old gent,” Shaw corrected him. “And he’s far more willing to see reason than you. It didn’t take much persuasion to get him to tell me what happened to your lovely sister. Strangely, though… his story left me a bit confused.” Shaw leaned back against the wall, crossing one ankle over his foot and folding his arms. “I lost two of my men the day you were brought here under less than favorable circumstances.” Christian snorted at this and shook his head. 

“You know I had nothing to do with it!”

“Oh, I know that,” Shaw agreed, waving him off. “You don’t have it in you, although a judge wouldn’t care. You and your father were found at the scene of the crime, standing over two bodies that had been torn apart. You were covered in their blood.” Christian closed his eyes in shame at the memory. He could still feel the cooling spatters on his skin, could smell their irony tang. “He found you puking your guts up in the alley. Said you were drunk. But the constable said you didn’t smell like whiskey at the time of your arrest. That’s not like you. We know how much you love your whiskey, brother.”

“Don’t call me that.” 

“Make me.” His smirk was mocking and cruel. He sighed and shook his head. “Chris, Chris… Your father’s story had a few holes in it. You… probably weren’t drunk. Let’s allow ourselves that little assumption. And Jase’s throat was torn out. Like some animal just came up and mauled him. That’s not your style.”

“Would that it were…”

“Don’t get cheeky.”

“Make me stop.” Shaw’s brows rose. Then he remembered Christian had too little to lose if he beat him to death. That would leave Shaw at a disadvantage.

“Guard… give him back his clothes. A bath wouldn’t hurt, either.” Shaw took his leave, but he smiled over the ragged cries following him from the cell and the splashes of buckets of water being thrown into the cell.

It was time to do some digging.

*

Christian finally slept, dressed in his now-damp rags. His troubled doze was obliterated by a low gasp. “Oh, no… Christian! CHRIS!” 

“Rise and shine, princess,” Flynn huffed from the corridor. Christian jerked and twisted around in his cot, eyes drifting open blearily. One of them was swollen shut, but he recognized a tall, willowy body, a slender face framed with a dark cloud of hair.

“Jeanne-Marie?”

“Chris! Oh, Chris!”

“You’ve got five minutes,” Flynn informed them tersely. He backed up and let Jeanne-Marie reach for him, waiting for him to stagger up from his cot. He reached for her hands through the bars, and she leaned in as closely as she could, returning his feeble kiss.

“Sweetheart, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“What’ve they done to you, Christian?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m fine, Jeanne-Marie.” She shook her head.

“Jean-Paul’s so worried.” She stroked his cheek gently, cradling it, mindful of his bruises. She leaned in and kissed him again. “We miss you so much! They’re just letting you rot in here…” Anger tinged her voice.

“I’m all right, love.”

“No, you’re not!”

“They haven’t broken me yet. They’ve tried. They’ll keep trying.” He smoothed a tendril of her hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “How is Jean-Paul? Is he well?”

“Hale and whole. Whoever worked on him knew what they were doing. There’s just a small scar, now.” Christian closed his eyes at the memory of Jean-Paul bleeding out, pale and limp in his arms.

“The one who healed him… she has Emma.” He spoke in a whisper.

“I know.” Jeanne-Marie’s voice was a low rasp. Flynn scowled at them both, then pulled his watch from his pocket. “We don’t have long.”

“I have to keep her away from Shaw.”

“Do you even know where she is?”

“No. Just… bits and snatches. It’s always that way with us. I can feel her, Jeanne-Marie. I see her in my dreams. Dressed in fine clothes, eating better than we ever have, reading by a fire… she misses me, but she’s content.”

“How can you know this?”

“I just do. But Jeanne-Marie, you have to keep her away from here.”

“She’ll want to see you!”

“She can’t,” he insisted roughly, clasping her hands so hard she hissed. “It’s what Shaw wants! He’ll want her to come here, and he won’t let her leave!” He shook his head, and Jeanne-Marie’s eyes filled with tears.

“Chris, people in town are talking… they might try you for murder.”

“Then let them try. I’m innocent.” His blood ran cold at the thought of a guilty verdict, and Jeanne-Marie paled. “I just want Father to be freed. He’s… he’s not doing well here.”

“Crazy old bastard,” Flynn agreed loudly from his post. “Hasn’t stopped ranting since he got here. It’s only gotten worse since Shaw’s last visit.” Flynn laughed, a smug, ugly sound. “Chip off the old block. Bet you’ll be bouncing off the walls soon enough, too, eh, princess?”

“That’s enough!” Jeanne-Marie snapped.

“I’ll say whatever I bloody well please, miss,” Flynn reminded her. “And you’re time here’s just about up!”

“Father’s the only one who knows where Emma is,” Christian whispered to her as Jeanne-Marie leaned in toward the bars. She stared at him levelly, clasping his hand, trying to lend him her strength. “They won’t get it out of him. Even if they do, they won’t believe him. No one in their right mind will believe the things he’s seen.”

“Yet look at what your sister can do. What Jean and I can do,” she murmured. “Loving the three of us might not mean you’re in your ‘right mind,’ darling.”

“Yet it’s all that I want.” He gave her a sad smile. “I love you. All of you, do you hear me?” She nodded quickly, then pressed her face into the gap between the bars, giving him another cool, sweet kiss. “If you see Emma, tell her to stay away. No matter what happens. I don’t care if they walk me out into the square and put me in stocks, or if they take off my head.” Jeanne-Marie smothered a sob and shook her head.

“Don’t say that, Chris!”

“Don’t let her come to me! D’you understand? No matter what, Jeanne-Marie!”

“I understand.” Her voice sounded small, and tears rolled down her cheeks, clouding her pale blue eyes. The thought of losing him, and of Emma never laying eyes on her brother again broke her heart. “Don’t lose faith, Chris. We’ll find a way. Jean-Paul and I will find a way. You’ll find your way back to us!” Flynn clapped his pocketwatch shut and advanced on them.

“Time’s up. You’ve got to get,” he told her. Jeanne-Marie was reluctant to release him, clutching his hand.

“I love you. I love you so much!”

“Love you, too. Kiss Jean-Paul for me. Tell him I love him.”

“Tell him yourself, soon.” 

“Just tell him! Please!”

“I will. Oh, Chris…” Flynn wrenched them apart, and Jeanne-Marie shrieked, all composure. “Damn you…! DAMN YOU! Let me stay with him! LET ME STAY! NO! NOOOOOOOOO…CHRISTIAN!” He gripped the bars of his cell and thumped his forehead against them, staring after her through his tears.

“Tell Jean-Paul I love him,” he murmured. He heard her cries through the door in the hall even after it swung shut.

*

Thompson had the singular pleasure of leading the Frost sisters inside the prison to visit their father; they sniffed disdainfully when he attempted to show them to their brother’s cell.

“We’re not here to see that rubbish,” Adrienne informed him crisply. “Take us to see Father.”

“And be quick about it,” Cordelia added coldly, shuddering at the interior’s damp walls and cobwebs, despising the musty smell. Thompson’s smile was less than welcoming.

“Aye, come on, then. Step lively, ladies.” He led them down the corridor, past several occupied cells. The men inside hooted and whistled at them, trying to reach for them through the bars, but Adrienne shot them venomous looks as they passed. The pot she carried, covered with a tea towel, emitted delectable aromas. They came to Winston’s cell, and this time, Thompson decided to be kind.

“You’re visiting him, you’re locked in with him,” he told them.

“Obviously,” Cordelia sighed.

“Your mother must be so proud,” Adrienne scoffed. “Just let us in.” Thompson, brought up short, fumbled with his large ring of keys and unlocked the cell. The low, metallic clicks of the key in the lock halted Winston’s rambling and made him jerk at the shift in the room.

“What’s that? Who’s there? Is that you, Hazel…? Oh. Oh, I suppose not.” He peered back over his shoulder, speaking to a phantom. “It’s the other two. Yes, yes, the mouthy one…” Adrienne scowled, but Cordelia hurried forward.

“Father, we’ve brought you supper.”

“Supper… well, let’s set another place at the table, then. Er, two more, I guess… yes, yes. Pull up a chair! There’s plenty!”

“Father…” Cordelia looked appalled and close to tears.

“He’s not with us,” Adrienne whispered.

“Father… let’s have some nice stew. Delphine, at that little inn you like so much, she made this.”

“Delphine… Delphine… large woman? Big, beefy ankles, and a mole on her left cheek?”

“That’s the one.”

“Oh, she’s a saucy gel, isn’t she?” Winston elbowed Cordy and winked. “Seen her giving me the eye. Don’t tell your mother, though.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Adrienne wiped her eyes, and Cordelia cleared her throat. They settled him at the tiny table and stool and handed him a spoon. He tucked into the stew with relish, wiping up the bit that dribbled from the corner of his mouth with his fingers.

“This isn’t Emma’s stew, but a man can’t be too picky. Blankets are a bit rough.”

“I bet they are,” Adrienne murmured. “Father… how long are they planning to keep you here?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. I was just walking along, and I stopped in the alley. That’s never a good idea, by the way. I don’t recommend it. I didn’t raise my three girls to frequent dark alleys.” He stared pointedly up at Adrienne. “Hope you two are comporting yourselves how your mother taught you. And Emma, too…” It hit him, then, that he was missing someone. “Where is she? Is she out there? Emma!” he called sharply. Cordelia cringed.

“Er, Father… don’t you remember?”

“She’s not here.”

“What d’you mean, she wouldn’t just… not visit her father,” Winston insisted, tossing the spoon back into the pot with a splash. He rose and pushed past them, peering out through the bars.

“Emma doesn’t live with us anymore, Father,” Cordelia told him gently. 

“But… that’s ridiculous!” he scoffed, laughing. “You’re funning with your father. You’re telling me a joke, dear. That’s rich. She’s hiding, isn’t she? Sneaky Emma. My clever little rose…”

“Father. You bargained her away.” Winston muttered to himself, feigning interest in the stew again, taking the spoon out of it and shaking it off. “You said she had to leave. You made a deal with someone. Don’t you remember?”

“A bargain? I’ll tell you what’s _not_ a bargain, that stodgy Henry Phillips and his kerosene oil, that’s what! What he charges is simply robbery. Robbery, I tell you…”

“Father… do you remember that night? The night you were coming home from finding your ships… the night it stormed? Please, Father,” Adrienne pleaded.

“The night that it…stormed?” Winston looked troubled and confused. “I wouldn’t go out on a night like that if I could help it. No telling what you’ll find… in the dark, when it’s thundering out. Lots of foul creatures,” he told them with a shudder. “With wings… and horns, like a great, fearsome ram, with jagged, nasty teeth! And the foul wretch will rend you and tear you to pieces with its great, bloody _claws!_ ” Winston was raving, eyes wide and dilated. “Girls, fear the night! Fear the creature that will steal the very thing you love! It has eyes like a jungle cat! Large, evil black wings, inky as night! She’ll promise you things! Feed you, set you in front of a fire…” Winston began to weep bitterly, shaking his head, and Adrienne and Cordelia watched in horror as the last of his sanity splintered. “I brought Emma a white rose! I would bring all of you _roses! ROSES!_ A father PROVIDES!”

“Father,” Cordelia pleaded. “It’s all right. No one has taken us away from you.”

“She took Emma… that foul wretch…”

“Where?” Adrienne was tense, having had enough of the foul cell and the filth that felt like it was crawling over her flesh. “Father, we need to know where Emma went.”

“My Emma, my darling Emma,” he sobbed, shaking in his seat. Winston mopped tears from his cheeks with his shabby sleeve. 

“You took Emma in your wagon. Once the night was clear,” Adrienne began, hoping he would fill in the rest.

“In the wagon,” Winston repeated. He rocked himself, and Cordelia sniffled back tears herself, seeing him in such a state.

“She packed up some of her things.” Nothing particularly special, as Adrienne recalled, except for a locket of their mother’s that she’d always coveted, but Winston had insisted that Emma have something of Hazel’s to hold close to her heart. Just the same shabby clothing that she wore day in, day out. A pair of worn-out slippers. She left those blasted roses behind for their mother’s grave, but they’d long since wilted and died. “And you took her for a ride in the wagon. You didn’t bring her back.”

“I couldn’t, you see. It wasn’t part of the bargain. Young. Smart. That’s why she wanted her. Lovely, yes. Lovely, she said. My young, sweet child. Wanted her as a companion… the beast. Wanted my Emma to join her in the foul darkness…”

Both Frost sisters looked ill.

“Father, what have you done?” Cordelia whispered.

“What I had to do… to feed us… keep you girls… in silks,” he spat, waving them away. “Took her to the castle on the hill. Across the river,” Winston scoffed. “Never find her there, will you?”

“The river, father?” 

“Down a winding, gravel road…” he mused. “Muddy, blasted road. My wagon could barely make it through it. That’s what that beast wants,” Winston railed, shaking his finger at them. “She wants us to fail! Won’t let us find Emma and bring her home! Home, to her dear old… lonely father…” His eyes wandered and grew glazed, and for several moments, he seemed to stare at nothing.

“Sister, he’s raving,” Cordelia whispered furiously, eyes shining with tears.

Adrienne ignored her. Her mind was racing with the possibilities.


	17. Brother’s Keeper, Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma realizes she has to act fast to rescue her brother and father, even if it means compromising Ororo to the curse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still stuck. SO stuck. This is one of those stories that started simply but went so far out of hand from what I originally planned for it. But I love Ororo/Emma, there is hardly ANY fanfic or fanart for these two together, and I want to see this through.

The nightmare, when it hit her, followed a peaceful enough day. 

Ororo and Emma spent most of the day in the library reading and playing chess and backgammon, taking their meals on the balcony to enjoy the fresh air, and, amusingly, in the large ballroom practicing a waltz. Ororo was aghast at Emma’s admission that she didn’t know how to dance. Her expression was dumbfounded, and, Emma decided, adorable formed from those feline features of hers.

“You’ve. Never. Danced.”

“Never.”

“So _deprived_ ,” Ororo growled under her breath. “Come. We must fix this, posthaste.”

“Fix what? Ororo, don’t be ridiculous, I’ll never need to know how to… wait! What? But?!?” Ororo dragged her stumbling into the ballroom, the hem of her voluminous robes flapping after her.

“This won’t do at all. A lovely young woman should always know how to do a proper waltz, at a _minimum._ ”

“I grew up on a _farm_ ,” Emma reminded her blandly, but she gasped when Ororo threw open the doors to the ballroom, which took her breath away.

It was the one from her dreams. Enormous, airy, with gleaming marble floors and a dazzling crystal chandelier. A white piano and a large brass harp sat in the corner, surrounded by several seats and music stands. Emma saw three violin cases and a larger one that had to be a cello. A brief memory flashed across her mind, a lilting strain of music underscored by chatter from a full salon… 

“This… this is amazing.”

“No one ever comes in here anymore,” Ororo replied, musing. She cleared her throat. “Now, that lesson.”

“It just seems silly… I’ll never need to know how to do a waltz. No one will ever ask me… it’s not like I’ll ever attend a ball-“

“I’m asking you. And you’re in a ballroom right now, aren’t you? Imagine that.” Emma smirked, then ducked her head. “Don’t be bashful.” Ororo led her to the center of the room, and Emma felt a blush building in her cheeks. 

“This just seems silly,” Emma murmured.

“Your enjoyment isn’t silly to me at all,” Ororo told her. “And you will enjoy this, Emma.” She pulled her close, hands clasped around Emma’s waist, and Emma felt a little dip in her stomach at their close contact, something that was becoming more and more familiar, and welcome. Ororo reached for Emma’s left hand, clasping it in her right, and she positioned Emma’s other hand on her shoulder. “I will lead.”

“Indeed. You will. I have no idea where I’m going!” Emma giggled. Ororo snorted, rolling her eyes.

“You’re such a goose.”

“We have no music!”

“Oh, but we do.” Ororo’s eyes twinkled. “Close your eyes.”

“Close them? How will I see where I’m going?”

“Just close them. Linger here for a minute. Imagine the music. Hear it.” Emma looked at her dubiously, brows creating a little divot between them, but she closed her eyes. “Think of the most beautiful music you’ve ever heard.”

All Emma could hear was her own breathing and Ororo’s, as well as her own heartbeat, which was slightly uneven. “This still feels silly,” she told her.

“Hush. Imagine it. Hear it.” Emma could hear the smile in her voice, and her own lips twitched. Emma concentrated on her environment, relaxing and letting her guard down, and slowly, her mind reached out to Ororo, gently, reverently, seeking out her emotions. She didn’t have to go far. They were right there on the surface, glowing radiantly and warmly, so clear and unguarded. Amusement and affection were chief among them, and an undercurrent of worry that gave Emma pause. Why would Ororo be worried right now? She tightened her grip on Ororo’s hand, briefly, as if to hold her captive, until Ororo tutted.

“It will come to you,” Ororo told her softly, mistaking Emma’s reaction for frustration. “Listen to it.”

Emma latched on to a recent memory, recalling a pleasant dream that evaporated when she woke from it, but that was drifting back to her in waves. Elegantly dressed guests. An opulent ballroom. Idle gossip shared over canapes and champagne. 

A beautiful hostess in a fine gown, snapping open a delicate fan. Large, exotic blue eyes that sparkled like sapphires. _Now is as good a time as any to learn._ Lilting, rich laughter at Emma’s expense. It came back to her in a rush, the hand at her waist, her hand gripped in a slender, smooth one with well-manicured nails as she was guided in the careful steps of a waltz…

Music. The melody was shaped by the reedy sound of a flute, taunting the fiddles that tried to keep up with its pace. She made a sound of surprise. Yes. _Yes._ There it was. So beautiful. So enticing.

“See? It’s not difficult.” 

“Hmm?”

“You’re doing well. Splendidly, in fact.” 

“What on earth are you talking abou-“ Emma’s eyes opened, and she was met by Ororo’s pleased, triumphant smile. They were moving. Dancing. Her feet were dancing in perfect time to Ororo’s as they swayed back and forth, in a slow, graceful reel around the ballroom floor. That’s when she realized that the music wasn’t just in her mind, anymore. 

She was projecting it. Sharing the melody for the two of them to hear, while Ororo kept up a low, murmured count.

“One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three…”

“I’m not really doing this. I’m dreaming.”

“No. You’re doing this. You’re with me, and I’m wide awake,” Ororo argued easily. “I’m still leading. It’s your turn next.” The music soared and filled the room, and Emma was still trying to retrieve snatches of her dream, until she realized…

…everything she could want from it, everything she could possibly wish for, was right there in that ballroom. Smiling, pressed against her, staring down into her eyes with amusement.

“Then as we finish the song, we look at each other… stop… then, we bow. Curtsy,” Ororo corrected herself. “Lovely!” As though Ororo conjured the end of the music with those words, the song faded away, and Emma couldn’t stop staring at her.

Something was strange. Something was _wrong._ Ororo cocked her head slightly, looking confused.

“What’s the matter, Emma?”

“Nothing, it’s… I’m just winded, I supposed. Could we… go now?”

“You haven’t led, yet.”

“Perhaps next time. I would love a cup of tea, wouldn’t you?”

“Love one,” Ororo agreed softly, but she was still bewildered as Emma rushed off.

“I’ll tell Manuel,” Emma assured her as she exited the ballroom, cheeks hot and palms clammy. Her heart was pounding. 

The image of a woman in lilac silk with skin the color of cinnamon teased her imagination, so familiar, but just out of reach. It felt like a betrayal.

*

Emma’s change in mood worried Ororo, but she didn’t press her for an explanation. They dined casually in the kitchen that night, not standing on ceremony for the simple fare, roasted chicken, potatoes and carrots seasoned with Ororo’s herbs. When they retired for the night, Emma accompanied her upstairs, but she paused in the corridor by Ororo’s suite. “Is it all right if I sleep in my own bed tonight?” 

“Of course. It is yours, after all,” Ororo assured her. “I want you to be comfortable.”

“It’s… I don’t-“

“I don’t mind having room to stretch my wings when I sleep, dear. It won’t be the first night I’ve slept alone, I might add. Would you like Santo to bring up a bath?”

“No. That’s fine. I’m a bit exhausted.” She grasped Ororo’s shoulder and leaned up to kiss her chastely on the lips. “Thank you for today. It was lovely.”

“We can dance whenever you want, Emma.”

“Sleep well, Wind-Rider.” Emma reached up and stroked Ororo’s cheek, smoothing her hair back from it.

“Sweet dreams.”

*

If only Ororo had wished them for herself before she climbed into bed. She thrashed and flailed in her bed, wings and limbs growing tangled in the covers as the images in her mind twined around her, winding around her limbs, her throats, wrapping themselves over her eyes, smothering her mouth…

A low breeze stirred the branches, one she didn’t conjure. The day was warm and mild, and she strolled through her garden toward the roses. They were still in bloom, but there were a few withered, dessicated brown heads, their inner yellow seeds exposed and as they shed petals. Ororo made a small tsk-ing sound, stroking a fingertip over one of the intact blooms. “Poor dear,” she told the bush. “You’ve been neglected.”

“You’re been ignoring your own problem long enough, Princess.” Ororo whirled on the voice’s owner, and she froze.

“You.”

“Lovely afternoon we’re having, dear. Is that your doing? Oh, don’t answer that. It’s mine, I suppose.” Her visitor was known to her, as unwelcome now as she had been that fateful night.

“Why are you here? Have you come to taunt me?”

“No. Just checking in.” The fairy floated more than walked, dressed in a shimmering, pearlescent gown. Her skin and hair were fairer than Emma’s, and her eyes glowed a bluish white. “You’ve done a lovely job maintaining all of this. Without servants, too. I’m impressed!” Ororo watched the fairy bend down to smell one of the pristine blooms, smiling and closing her eyes as she inhaled. “These are still my favorite. The red ones are too showy, aren’t they?” She looked up to see Ororo’s reaction. “That’s why you refused it, wasn’t it? Why you refused me? You didn’t care for the red rose I offered you?”

“Is that important for you to know now?” Ororo said levelly. “If I had offered you shelter-“

“It would have made all the difference in the world, at least in regard to the curse. You could have housed me in the barn or in the cellar, which still wouldn’t have put you out of your way, but then you wouldn’t have learned _anything._ You would have cast me out the next day, and then gone about your merry way, debauching yourself without any regard to anything but your own pleasure and needs. And that simply wouldn’t do. The world doesn’t need another narcissist, dearie.”

“So you decided it needed another monster?” Ororo accused. “Are you proud of what you’ve done?”

“No. Not really. But it still needed to be done.” She reached for the roses, grasping a delicate stem. To Ororo’s horror, she snapped it off the cane, and lancing pain stabbed through her chest.

“NO! DON’T! Please!”

“Oh. Did that sting?” she purred, lips forming a small moue. “How awful of me, dear. I forgot that you feel that bothersome kinship with growing things. How tedious. Hold on, now, I’ll just be a moment-“ She reached for another rose, severing it from its stalk. Pain ripped like fire through Ororo again, squeezing, throbbing, pulsing behind her eyes. “I just can’t resist white roses. They’re so pure and beautiful, and they smell so heavenly.” Her hair was coiled in elegant buns, and she tucked a rose into each one as she contemplated Ororo, who was doubled over in pain, retreating from her.

“Please… stop,” she pleaded.

“Oh, you’re no fun at all,” she teased, but she sobered. “All right, then. I’ll let you get back to your houseguest. That’s all she is, isn’t she?” Ororo shook her head, but it was difficult to focus past the pain. “No? She’s more than that?” The enchantress laughed and waved dismissively. “But, how could she be? Forgive me for my bluntness, Princess Ororo, but you’re _hideous._ Ghastly. Dare I say it… beastly.”

“Thanks… to you,” Ororo rasped.

“No. Thanks to _you,_ and your selfishness and vanity. You brought this on yourself. I’ve been patient, Ororo. And generous. But a curse is a curse.”

“Curses are made to be broken,” Ororo told her, a glint of challenge in her eyes as she straightened. The fairy reached toward the rosebush again, but Ororo lunged over and swatted her hand away.

Clouds rolled ominously overhead, dimming the sun as a wind kicked up, rustling every tree and shrub. The fairy’s eyes flashed, but Ororo’s glowed a fiery white, and her hair rose on the currents.

“I still have time,” Ororo told her. “Cease your taunts! I will break your curse! I will win her love!”

“You will lose her. And when you do, you will lose everything, Wind-Rider. You have until the turn of the seasons, when the last rose petal falls and the autumn leaves turn, to win Emma’s heart, through no _bargaining, manipulation or promises._ She must profess her love for you, true and unconditional, before you’ve lost your last white rose, or you and your entire house will perish.”

“Get out!” Ororo shrieked. “Get yourself from here, witch! You’ve done enough harm!” Thunder boomed overhead, followed by graceful arcs of lightning that danced from the clouds. The fairy sighed, then chuckled.

“Always dramatic. Always _entertaining._ I enjoy our visits, Ororo, have I ever mentioned that?” Not one to be intimidated by Ororo’s display, the fairy closed her eyes and tipped her head back, summoning her energies, and she was enveloped in a shaft of white light, transforming, _growing_ until she surged toward Ororo, a floating, cloudlike wraith. She rushed at her with a high-pitched shrieking sound, burning along Ororo’s nerves, tingling down her spine so fiercely she felt ripped in half-

Ororo was drowning in her own sweat when she woke. She ripped through the covers with her talons in her fight to free herself, and she turned her pillow into a cloud of feathers that floated down around her like snow. “No,” she whispered. “I can’t. I can’t lose her. Goddess, help me…”

She turned her face into the remaining pillow and wept helplessly.

 

From down the corridor, Emma felt a blast of Ororo’s fear and anguish, stirring her from sleep. “What?” She sought her out with her mind, with the gentlest psychic touch. Just as gently, she felt Ororo’s rebuff. Emma eased herself back into the yielding mattress, adjusting her covers. “I wish you would stop being so stubborn,” Emma mused aloud.

She didn’t fall back to sleep until she felt Ororo’s emotions settle and her thoughts drift into sweet oblivion once more.

*

Adrienne’s best pair of boots rubbed her heel slightly on her walk into town, but she had precious little experience driving her father’s wagon, and she had a horrible seat for riding side-saddle on horseback. She wore her large straw hat trimmed in ostrich plumes, feeling stylish and elegant, a woman of leisure and comfort, even though her hands, beneath her kid gloves, had new callouses that belied her status. Ever since Christian was arrested and Emma was spirited away, Cordelia and Adrienne were left to manage the chores on their own, and they hated it. Cordy managed to get a swift kick from the cow when she went out to milk them that morning, and she was nursing a bruised jaw, as well as an abiding hatred of all bovine creatures going forward. Adrienne claimed the much easier chore of feeding the chickens and collecting the eggs, even though a few of them pecked at her.

Adrienne made her way down to the Black Trident Inn, shivering slightly within its shadowy interior. The man behind the counter looked up in interest as she entered.

“How can I help you, miss?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Pierce.”

“He’s with Mr. Shaw.”

“Can you please tell him I’m here?” He beckoned to a young man who arrived with a tray of empty, clean goblets. He murmured something into his ear and set him off with a nod.

“Wait here.” He didn’t invite her to sit down, which vexed her, but she was anxious to see Donald. If her hunch paid off, if her father wasn’t just raving, then she could negotiate with Shaw, with her sister’s whereabouts as the bargaining chip. The visit with Winston had been frustrating, but he had all of the tells of a man who believed his own words, and he was babbling endlessly about Emma being lost to them all… Adrienne couldn’t care less about her youngest sister, the little baggage. She only wished Winston had thought to use some of his earnings from his sale of the recovered goods to hire a hand to help with the farm. If Donald truly cared for her, Adrienne was certain a proposal was in the cards, even if Winston couldn’t offer a very generous dowry.

“You may follow me,” the young man told her, beckoning for her to precede him through the door of the back salon. She nodded and gave him a winning smile before she closed her parasol, tucking it under her arm. Adrienne then followed him though the gaming room, a large, ornately decorated space that oozed wealth and masculine charm, with dark leather everywhere, hunting trophies hung from the main wall over the bar. A few men looked up from their games of cards, smirking to each other over the female in their midst, garbed in her snug, slightly revealing gown. Adrienne allowed her young guide to show her inside the next door, Shaw’s den, and she noticed it was warmer than the rest of the club thanks to a fire lit in the grate. Shaw and Donald were seated across from each other, and Donald rose from the ottoman as she entered, smiling in welcome.

“There she is, my little dove,” he exclaimed, pouring on the charm, even though her unannounced visit vexed him. Adrienne joined him, turning her cheek up to his lips.

“Hello, darling. Sebastian,” she offered. The familiarity, Sebastian could excuse, certainly, when he had such clear designs on her sister. The young steward closed the door behind him as he left.

“Have a seat? Care for a drink?”

“I’m so parched,” Adrienne told him as she took up a place on the leather chaise. She was about to lay down her parasol until Donald took that and her reticule from her and hung them both on the coat tree in the corner. Adrienne unpinned her hat and set it beside her on the chaise, carefully fluffing her curls.

“Will a nice cordial do?”

“Please.” Donald poured one from a small, green glass bottle that he took down from the cabinet. He handed her the short tumbler, and she sipped it gratefully.

“What brings you so far into town today, dear?” Sebastian inquired.

“Cordelia and I had the chance to visit Father the other day. I wish I could be here under lighter circumstances.”

“Oh?” Shaw paused in lighting his pipe, match poised over the book he’d removed it from. 

“His time in the prison has changed him considerably. His constitution has grown more delicate.” Shaw schooled his expression carefully, but Donald was dancing attendance on her, kneeling by her side and taking her hand, lightly stroking her cheek.

“Oh, darling, it must be so dreadful for you.”

“Cordelia and I are trying so hard to cope, but it’s so difficult… oh, I’m sorry. I must be boring you with my worries.” She clutched her cordial and fanned herself theatrically. “I hope you don’t think me overwrought.”

“Never,” Shaw promised. “Continue.”

“He was raving and fretful, and all he could talk about was Emma,” she told them.

Both men leaned forward in interest.

“Have you heard from your sister?” Donald asked gravely, laying a hand on her shoulder. His touch burned her through the thin fabric of her capped sleeve, and Adrienne shivered with the memory of his possessive touch during more clandestine meetings than this one.

“Not one word. No communication at all,” she told them, voice quivering slightly, just enough to make Donald give her a little squeeze. “Father has been so vague about her whereabouts, and Cordelia and I have been beside ourselves. Father is so lost without her.” She took a fortifying sip of cordial, then let Donald take it from her and set it on the small side table. “I believe he allowed something dreadful to happen. Something unseemly. You realize, Donald, darling… our family isn’t as well-heeled as we would like. Our father is a farmer now, but he was once a successful merchant.”

“You said he came into a bit of luck, and found some of the goods that he thought he lost at sea?” Shaw had heard some of the rumors around the vendor’s stalls, from the townsfolk wondering why they hadn’t seen any sign of Emma selling their eggs or milk about town.

“Yes! It was such a blessing! He seemed so happy, finally.” It was only a little white lie; if anything, Winston had never seemed more bleak when he returned home from his journey, face drawn, eyes full of guilt. “But shortly after he returned to us, he took Emma away. He gave so little explanation. She just packed a few of her things, and… I didn’t understand. Cordy and I thought Emma ran away, at first. She can be thoughtless, sometimes, and impetuous.” Another lie, but Shaw merely nodded.

“She’s spirited,” he pointed out.

“Yes, of course she is,” Adrienne said, letting the whisper of tears form in her eyes. “But Father came home without her, and I feel that… perhaps he bargained her away. During our visit with him, he mentioned something that gave Cordelia and me pause.”

“What might that be, dear?” Donald asked.

“He mentioned a castle on a hill. Over a river. Down a winding gravel road. Isn’t that odd?”

Shaw felt excitement brewing in his chest.

“He said he nearly threw a wheel from his wagon trying to navigate that road at night, when he was caught in a storm, before the night that Emma left. He really should have stayed the night in town,” she mused.

“He could have stopped here. We would have been glad to extend our hospitality to Winston, of course,” Shaw said hollowly.

“The strangest thing of all, out of his rantings, Donald, was – oh, I don’t know if I should even share this. It’s outlandish, and preposterous! I wouldn’t shame him by mentioning this, but… he mentioned a creature. Yes, Father said a creature took Emma away from him, to keep from now on.”

Both men froze. Donald released his grip on her and settled back, then stood. “Darling?” Adrienne inquired. “Did you hear what I said? A creature. Isn’t that odd?”

“Up the mountain,” Shaw murmured. “And over the river.”

“It makes no sense that he would even travel so far, instead of just remaining close to the shore, since he was still searching for his ships,” Adrienne reasoned, her tone almost a scoff. “He’s had such a hard time, and he’s so fragile at his age.”

“Darling, the circumstances were unfortunate when Winston and your brother were arrested,” Shaw told her, cutting her attempts off before they could reach their full ripeness. “They were found with two murdered men nearby. Even if Winston didn’t lay a hand on either of them, your brother has no alibi.”

“I’m not concerned about Christian! I just want my father back, and my sister!” High spots of color appeared in her cheeks, but she realized that she spoke too hastily. “I mean… I just want my family back together, and for my brother’s innocence to be proven…”

“No one has come forward yet on his behalf, my dear. We only have Christian’s word and your father’s… ramblings. You can see what makes this so difficult.”

“They still haven’t tracked down the third man. There was another, the night that my men were killed. He was a friend of your brother’s, I assume?” Shaw wondered aloud. Adrienne huffed.

“Friend. Aye, that’s putting it lightly. Christian’s idea of a ‘friend’ is less conventional than yours or mine. Christian has… exotic tastes. Too unseemly to describe.”

“You may speak freely, without judgment,” Shaw encouraged. His eyes were shrewd, burning black coals.

“Christian… he pursues relations with men. Men and women both. He’s shamed Father on more than one occasion.” Shaw sighed; this wasn’t news. “He runs about with this horrible kitchen boy… Jean, something.” 

“A kitchen boy?” Donald prodded.

“Yes. Oh… I know! Jean-Paul,” she pronounced, proud of herself. “Tallish. Dark hair with cunning little streaks of white. Blue eyes. He and Chris keep close company.”

Donald continued to ply her with sympathetic words and sweet cordial as she spilled all of the information they needed. Shaw’s excitement was barely contained, hidden skillfully beneath a calm mask.

Adrienne filled their ears with her account of her plight as an abandoned, destitute daughter. “There is just so much to do, and Cordelia and I were woefully unprepared for these responsibilities. You can imagine the stress and difficulty of managing a farm such as ours? It would help us so much to have some assistance. Cordelia and I can’t be expected to handle the heavy lifting and toil…”

“Of course you can’t, my dear. Mustn’t sully those delicate hands.” Shaw closed the gap between them and bent over her hand, kissing it. Adrienne shivered. “We won’t let your struggle continue so. Expect two of my staff to arrive tomorrow at day break to help you with the chores. It’s the least I can do.” Adrienne’s face was stunned, then radiant.

“Oh, Sebastian! How thoughtful-“

“Don’t think of it as a kindness, my dear. Think of it as returning a favor.”

“Er… returning a… favor?” Her voice held a note of confusion.

“Yes, dear. I know it was difficult the last time you joined him, but I need you to visit your father once more.”

“But… shouldn’t we be focusing more of our effort on freeing him, and proving his innocence?”

Winston could rot for all Shaw cared, but he kept his voice and expression calm and level.

“Once we have a proper witness come forward, we will make sure your father is freed,” Shaw told her easily. “Here. Have some more cordial, madam.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't been posting updates to adultfanfiction.net because my home internet is unfortunately only dial-up (which is like listening to a Walkman cassette player when you have gotten used to streaming Pandora), and it won't let me log onto my account. I also can't use the text uploader from my phone. So, this story, once it is completed, will mainly live here. Not that anyone cares, but I like talking to the crickets. Be well, everybody.


	18. Ororo as the Beast, Artwork for White Rose by Yours Truly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I draw once in a while. I drew this to keep me inspired to keep writing this.

[](https://imgur.com/9Yk1aY0)

More artwork might follow this piece. I posted this on my Tumblr, too.

Expect a new chapter soon!


	19. My Brother’s Keeper, Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma's idyll at the castle comes to an abrupt, unpleasant end when Christian is sentenced for murder.  
> 　

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The addition of Christian and his story arc definitely diverges from the original fairy tale, and I'm sorry if it makes the story more convoluted. I just wanted to give the story another layer.
> 
> I've been wavering about the ending to this story and how to bring it about, where to place the characters, etc. I'm still figuring that part out, after leaving this story pat for about a year (or more, I've pretty much forgotten when I updated the text last).
> 
> The next chapter will involve some confessions. And probably some violence. And hair-pulling.
> 
> Thank you for reading.

_Emma. I'm so sorry. I've failed you._  
　  
Cold fear speared through Emma's chest as she woke with a start, propelling herself up from the pillows. "Christian!" She's heard him plain as day in her head before she'd fully left the fog of dreams.  
　  
Beside her, Ororo stirred. Her slender, taloned hand reached out, patting blindly for Emma as she yawned. "What's wrong, sweetling?" She smelled the hard tang of Emma's fear, and that woke her fully, as well. "Was it a nightmare?"  
　  
"No! If it only were. It was Chris, I heard him! I heard my brother, Ororo, he's in trouble! I felt his despair, and it's so much worse this time!"  
　  
"You heard him?"  
　  
"He called out to me again. I have to see him!"  
　  
"Emma. Emma, stop," Ororo advised as Emma threw back the covers and sprang from bed, still naked. Emma rummaged through the wardrobe and found drawers and a soft, plain linen shift. "Emma, listen to me."  
　  
"There's no time!" Emma jerked on the undergarments and yanked open a drawer, finding stockings, which she struggled to hop into, not even bothering to roll them over her foot properly. "He needs me!" Her voice rose in pitch, girlishly high with fresh hysteria.  
　  
"Emma, it's the middle of the night," Ororo hissed. She sat up in bed and shook out her wings, freeing one from a cramp.  
　  
"He called out to me, you don't understand! I have to go to him!"  
　  
"In the dark? And then, do what?" Ororo tried to push logic and reason into her manner, but it was difficult when Emma was so overwrought.  
　  
"I'll figure that out when I get there!"  
　  
"EMMA!" Ororo's tone was sharp, and she was up out of bed in an instant. She gripped Emma's wrist, stopping her attempts to dress herself. Her blue eyes - strangely, eerily beautiful, no longer the cloudy slate that they had been when they first met, but a clear, true sky blue - were stern, but kind. "Stop this. You're an intelligent girl. _Think_ , for a moment. He spoke to you?"  
　  
Emma's eyes were limpid with anguish, and she nodded.  
　  
"Did you get anything else from him? Any impressions? A location? Is he with your father?" Ororo pressed. "That would help, dear."  
　  
"Ororo... I don't know, I..." Insight dawned on her face, and she shook herself free of Ororo's grasp, before she darted into the corridor.  
　  
"Emma!" Ororo huffed, annoyed that her reasoning wasn't finding fertile ground. "Honestly..." she muttered as she followed her. She was surprised to find Emma running back to Ororo's bedchamber. Ororo preferred spending nights in Emma's room, by now. It smelled like her, and the morning light streamed in through the windows so perfectly, casting Emma's skin and hair in gold. Ororo knew that her days were numbered, growing fewer all the time. Her roses mocked her every time she stepped out into the garden. Fewer new buds appeared to replace the wilted blooms.  
　  
She followed Emma into her chamber and found her searching her vanity, and froze when she saw what Emma found, brandishing it at her in triumph.  
　  
"Take me to Chris," Emma told the traveling mirror clutched in her grip. "Show him to me. Please." Her heart pounded as the mirror's silver surface clouded and swirled. Emma saw traces of images, barely made out Chris's face, before it faded to black. Emma's heart lodged itself in her throat, and she tasted bile. "Chris! CHRISTIAN! No! Show him to me! Take me to him!" She shook the mirror, dashing the side of it with her palm, and her voice grew wobbly. "Show me my brother!"

"Emma. Don't. You're not focused. Here." Ororo padded over to her and gently took Emma by the shoulders. "It's all right. Let me. Give it to me." Emma shook her head, eyes tearing up, but Ororo was insistent. “It’s all right. We will find him, Emma.”

“I have to, Ororo, I’m going to lose him, you don’t understand! He’s all I have! Chris and Papa, they’re all… _I have_.” Her eyes held so much desperation, and she trembled.

Ororo softly shushed her and pulled her close. Her fur was soft and sleep-warmed, and her arms were so strong, steadying Emma. “We will find him. Together. I promise you this. But I won’t let you run off into the night half-cocked and unprepared.” Emma withdrew and swiped at her damp cheeks with her palm. “Lie down.”

“But-!”

“Lie down, dear.” She nodded to her bed, and Emma hesitated. Her mouth tilted mulishly, and Ororo knew she was in for a fight before they even went out the door.

“You said we would find him! I can’t just go back to-”

“Emma. Enough.” And Ororo spread her wings, flapping them in a grand, sweeping flourish, making the air in the room stir Emma’s hair. “I will not let you down. I will not fail you, Emma. But I want you to lie down and rest. You’ll only see him once you’ve calmed yourself.” Emma stubbornly, gingerly sat on the edge of the bed, and Ororo felt a frisson of amusement at her expression, knowing the sort of mutinous thoughts rolling proudly through that pretty blonde head.

Instead of hovering over her imperiously, Ororo knelt before Emma on the floor. Emma’s brow furrowed in surprise. “Think about him. Hear his voice in your mind again, dear. Go back. To those moments before you woke up. You’re a talented girl, Emma. Use that canny mind.” Ororo took Emma’s hands, which still clutched the mirror, and hers felt so warm. “Think back. Hear him, and we will find him.”

The mirror pulsed in Emma’s hand, quivering and growing warm. Emma closed her eyes and breathed deeply, quietly. She concentrated, going back to her dreams, opening the door in her mind and recapturing the moment she heard Christian and tasted his despair. 

Despite Ororo’s admonition to Emma to calm herself, her own pulse was rapid and uneven, resulting from being awoken so suddenly and feeling Emma’s terror. She stared down into the mirror while Emma focused on it, reestablishing her link to her brother. The mirror’s surface continued to swirl, but this time, there were more distinct forms and depth to the images. Colors and textures, light and shadows, all of it was revealed to them as Emma slowly repeated Christian’s lament.

“I’m so sorry. I’ve failed you,” she murmured, and another fat tear rolled down her cheek, wetting her shift. “Bars. I see… bars. A hard looking bed. Like a cot. Sconces. In the corridor.”

“I see them too, Emma. Look.” And Ororo squeezed her hands, prompting Emma to open her eyes and gaze into the mirror.

“It’s different from the other cell,” Emma told her. Christian sat in a chair, posture unnaturally straight. His arms were pulled behind him, and Emma realized they were bound. His face was bruised and bloody, but his blue eye were defiant. Emma saw bodies moving around him, clad in opulent clothing. Gentleman’s togs.   
　  
One of them struck him across the temple, a cruel, backhanded clout. Chris reeled, sagging, but he looked up, and the spirit in his eyes remained unextinguished. Steady. Emma covered her mouth and stifled a sob.

“You’ve received the finest hospitality we could offer,” Emma intoned in an unearthly, gruff tone. Her voice sounded deeper, with uncharacteristic inflections. Her eyes glowed with eerie silver light as she channeled the words of the men in the cell with Christian, one by one. Ororo shrank back, discomfited, but the words continued to come. “The least you can do to repay it is to bring your sister here. Save us the trouble of bringing her to your trial.”

Ororo’s wings bristled, and she emitted a low, hard growl. No one was going to bring Emma anywhere, if she had any say in the matter.

“You won’t get her. You’ll never get my sister.”

“Oh, we will. If she cares anything for you, she will come. Your sister is a fine young woman, and I feel no joy about revealing to her that her only brother is a murderer.”

“I didn’t kill anyone!”

“Yet there are two dead men.”

“Men.” Christian spat. “Curs, more like it. The world became a brighter place once they were snatched out of it, Shaw.”

_Shaw_.

That name gave Ororo chills. He wanted Emma. Pursued her. Ororo knew that he tried to squeeze a betrothal out of Winston, knowing he had no dowry to offer and that his farm would benefit from the windfall guaranteed by Emma marrying for Shaw’s wealth and position.

“She’ll want to tell you goodbye. We will reunite you, out of kindness. You, and your father. Take heart, Christian. Emma will be in the best hands once you and your father meet your maker.”

Emma’s body wavered where she sat. Her face was a rictus of horror, eyes still glowing, and she screamed, convulsing and releasing her grip on the mirror. Ororo managed to catch it before it could shatter on the floor. She set it down and caught Emma, shaking her by her shoulders.

“Emma! EMMA! Break free! Let him go! LET GO!” Emma continued to convulse, and her skin grew clammy and pale.

“She’ll want to tell you goodbye!” her voice sounded hysterical. “WHEN YOU MEET YOUR MAKER! TELL YOU GOODBYE!”

“EMMA!”

Ororo wrestled her down, back onto the covers, struggling to hold her still. She clasped Emma’s wrists down when she tried to pummel Ororo, eyes still aglow. She screamed again. “NO! CHRIS, NO! DON’T LEAVE ME! DON’T GO! DON’T GO”

“Sweetheart, no! Come back to me, do you hear me? Let go! Let go of them!”

Emma bucked and arched off the bed, but Ororo held onto her. “Focus on me,” she hissed. “Stay with me, Emma! Do you understand me? Listen to me. Stay right here with me.”

Neither of them saw the looks of horror on Shaw’s face, or Christian’s, as Emma’s cries spanned the psychic divide, traveling through her channel with Christian. The mirror’s images slowly faded, and the hectic glow left Emma’s eyes.

Emma sobbed, and Ororo folded her into her arms. She held her for as long as she needed, a tangible presence and source of endless strength. 

“He’s still alive. They will still have a trial.”

“He has no one to speak for him, Ororo. What about witnesses?”

“Jean-Paul,” she reminded her. “They would have to call him forward…”

“You don’t know Shaw. He will twist things. He’s an evil, horrible man,” Emma told her. “You know what he’s done to Chris, before. Just for the sake of a gambling debt.” Emma remembered that night, when Chris shared those memories with her. She shuddered at the dim echoes of Chris’ pain and humiliation, of how it felt to be violated.

Ororo urged Emma back into bed, letting her “piggyback” with her emotions, projecting soothing feelings for Emma to sync herself with. She kept the door firmly closed on her thoughts, because that was a risk she wasn’t willing to take, letting Emma know the full truth of her purpose in the castle. “Rest, darling. We will approach this with clearer heads in the morning.” Emma sighed and drifted off. Her arms jerked slightly, reaching for Ororo as she withdrew, but Ororo tucked them back beneath the covers and kissed her brow.

“I love you so much,” she whispered, voice clogged with emotion. “And, I fear I’ve ruined things.”

So, it came to this.

Ororo wandered outside to her garden once she closed Emma safely in her chamber. She walked among the statues and flowered shrubs and contemplated her roses.

“You knew it would one day come to this?” she asked the shadows. She knew the fairy could hear her, even if Ororo could not see her. She knew she was always watching and waiting to witness the results of her handiwork, hoping for Ororo to fail. 

“If I tell her, she will leave me,” Ororo mused. “If I don’t tell her about my part in her brother’s imprisonment, then he will die. I’ve made my own bed, haven’t I?”

Her roses had no answers for her, except for the silent, almost imperceptible shedding of delicate, dessicated petals.

“So be it,” she decided.

Even if she died a beast, there was no need to die a coward.

 

*

Jean-Paul peeled the large, brown spud with the knife, digging out the eyes and bad spots while the rest of the kitchen staff bustled around him, hauling in dirty dishes and tankards, stirring soups, and plucking fowls. He accidentally knicked his thumb and sucked on it to soothe the tiny wound.

“Don’t bleed into the mash,” Jeanne-Marie warned him as she hurried by with a bottle of wine for the fussy table in the back.

“What’s this I hear about bleeding? There will be no bleeding in my kitchen!” the head chef yelled from his butchering table. “Unless it’s from this fellow, here,” he amended, nodding to the huge haunch of beef in front of him. Jeanne-Marie snickered and pulled a face before she disappeared through the swinging doors.

At least work was predictable. If left to his own devices at home, Jean-Paul would spend his days fretting about Christian. He’d managed to sneak him in a partial loaf of day-old bread, calling in a favor from one of the dish boys whose cousin worked as a guard. Even that effort was a calculated risk; Jean-Paul was still a suspect, and as such, an accessory to murder. Jeanne-Marie managed to cover for him with their boss, who gave Jean-Paul a jaundiced look when he finally returned to the kitchen after his absence, paler, thinner, moving more gingerly than he normally did. But he slowly recovered, and Jean-Paul and Jeanne-Marie could at least eat and continue to live under their meager, leaky roof.

Christian looked worse than he had when he was first arrested, skin mottled with bruises and eyes hollow, ringed with shadows. He was gaunt and haggard, jaw unshaven. They heard no word from Winston, but Jean-Paul knew he was alive, and being kept in no finer accommodations, certainly. Jeanne-Marie relayed this to her brother when she made a brief, furtive visit to him, but they would only let her speak to him through the bars, and she wasn’t allowed to touch him. She was a tearful mess when she returned home, and Jean-Paul felt like his heart had been ripped from his chest.

Since his return, Jean-Paul had heard nothing else from his mysterious benefactor. He owed it - her - his life thousands of times over, but he had her to blame, too, for Christian’s predicament. Christian would have died; Jean-Paul had to remind himself of this, but self-blame left a bitter tang in his mouth at his failure to protect his lover. 

Jean-Paul still thought of Emma, too, hidden away in the castle on the hill. How was she faring, he wondered. Was she in peril? Was she suffering under the beast’s strange sense of hospitality, or flourishing for it? His memories of that night were scattered; he didn’t remember the path to the beast’s home, woozy from blood loss and feverish, seething pain. The creature’s voice, deep, husky and feminine, still haunted his dreams.

His only consolation was that Emma was far away from Sebastian Shaw, and from her horrid sisters. Cordelia came to the inn one afternoon and asked to speak to Jean-Paul. Her visit was brief and chilly. She wore rich clothing and her face was painted with cosmetics, hardly the habit of a woman mourning the impending sentencing of her father and brother, and Jean-Paul wanted to puke.

She sized him up when he met her out back, still dressed in his dirty apron and sweating from the heat of the kitchen. “What’s the matter? Have you spoken with Christian?”

“Of course not. I went to see Father,” she told him. “He’s not well. His mind is broken. The warden has mentioned that he might admit father to the sanitarium.”

Jean-Paul recoiled. “They would give him over to the mad house? You would allow them to lock him up in that den of horrors?” Few poor souls survived the experience. It was cold, cramped and harsh. Patients there were often restrained and tortured, separated permanently from loved ones, starved and neglected. They were punished for the crime of being insane, not cured. Mania was often assumed to be the reward for a sinful life. Winston was better off in the prison; his chances were certainly no worse there.

“Well, we can’t take care of him at home,” Cordelia snapped, as though he were simple. “He was raving. Losing Emma has upset him so. It’s such a shame.”

“Losing her,” Jean-Paul spat. “Is that what you truly think?”

Cordelia scowled at him, diminishing her beauty. “I have to go. I merely came to see if the guards ever gave you any of Chris’ belongings.”

Jean-Paul felt rage creeping up the back of his skull. “ _What._ ”

“Like his pocketwatch,” she suggested.

“Get the hell out of here,” he growled, balling his fist up and advancing upon her. She backed up, nearly stumbling over her skirts. “Never show your face here again, unless it's with word of your brother’s safety and well-being! Don’t show up here hoping to scavenge from me and to show me how little regard you have for the man that I love. You, who should be anxious for his return to your family! Go fuck yourself, Cordelia Frost!”

She turned on her heel and ran before he’d even finished his warning.

 

He should have known that things wouldn’t have stopped there. Fate was never that kind.

Jean-Paul had just dropped the last peeled potato into the pot when he heard a commotion in the kitchen. Several pairs of thudding, heavily booted feet entered the cooking area, and he felt a rough hand on his shoulder.

“Jean-Paul Beaubier?”

“Yes?” Jean-Paul turned to face him, and he paled when he was the constable’s uniform and the parchment with it’s broken, blue wax seal.

“You are hereby under arrest. You are a suspect in the murder of Jason Wyngarde, as an accessory.”

“What? On whose authority?”

“It doesn’t matter. Come along peacefully, now.” The constable’s fellow officers wielded billy clubs; one of them rested his hand on the small pistol tucked into his holster. Jean-Paul’s blood ran cold. He allowed it, this rough treatment, as the grabbed him and hauled him out of the kitchen, jerking his arms behind him. Shame flooded him as his friends, coworkers, and twin sister watched him be taken away.

“Jean-Paul! JEAN-PAUL!” 

*

Ororo returned home, landing neatly on the balcony adjoining her wing and gently walking inside. She strode down the corridor, listening for Emma. It was oddly quiet, and that unsettled her. She reached out with her thoughts. _Emma? Where are you, little rose? What would you like for breakfast?_ She clutched the jar in her hand, filled with fresh bars of honeycomb that she found after reaching her decision. She mulled her development for hours as night gave way to day, and she took herself for a brief jaunt to clear her head among the clouds.

“Emma?” she said aloud.

“Mistress! MISTRESS!” Dani and Rahne’s paws skittered over the marble floor, followed quickly by Manuel. Ororo smelled their panic before they even spoke. “She’s gone! Emma’s gone again!”

Ororo’s stomach lurched with sudden nausea, and she dropped the jar, shattering it. The honeycomb mingled with shards of glass on the fine marble. Her heart pounded and skipped, and she felt the fairy laughing in the back of her mind, pleased that her curse was coming to full fruition. “When?”

“We’re not sure, Mistress,” Rahne told her. “It hasn’t been long. Her scent’s not cold.”

“Jenny came to her to help pick out a dress. That’s when we found out she was gone,” Dani explained, looking mournful. “I’m so sorry, Mistress.”

“No. You’re not to blame. Emma’s stubborn. You couldn’t have stopped her from leaving if you’d tried. Not even Santo could have,” Ororo pointed out miserably. “All right, then.”

“What are you going to do, Wind-Rider?” Manuel asked. She reached down and stroked his long ears, a rare gesture of affection from her.

“What any decent woman would. I’m going to turn myself in to the authorities for murder.”

 

*

Emma glanced at the mirror as she forded the shallow river on the back of the pure white horse. It was discomfiting that it couldn’t speak to her like the rest of the creatures under Ororo’s roof, but Emma had grown so accustomed to the exceptional that the mundane mystified her, now, and fell short of her expectations. The air was growing warmer as she traveled, and she almost regretted the heavy cloak. Emma wore one of her old dresses, more practical for travel, and it wouldn’t upset her if her skirts snagged on protruding branches on the way. The mirror gleamed and glowed as she grew closer to town, to Christian, and she saw him in its surface, still huddled on his hard cot, his bruises gruesomely purple and wounds freshly scabbed. But he was alive.

She continued down the path, and she was relieved that she didn’t encounter the wolves again, or any other predators that would take advantage of her solitude. Emma’s stomach twisted and growled with hunger, and she regretted not packing provisions. She rode through the familiar clearing, noticing it was filled with wildflowers from the recent rains. She was too fretful to appreciate their beauty.

It felt strange to gaze upon the familiar buildings as she reached the town. She’d been away from them for so long. The vendor’s stalls looked smaller and less impressive; she noticed that the apothecary shop’s roof was in need of patching and that many of its boards were rotted, and the window out front was cracked. As Emma rode, she recognized Celeste at her old stall. She looked well-fed and as toothless as ever when she spied Emma and called out to her.

“Aye, and there she is, pretty as a rose! Where have you been hiding yourself, child?”

“Celeste!” Emma approached her, dismounting from her horse and wandering over to her, hands tight on the bridle. “Have you heard anything from my sisters? Have they been into town?”

“Once in a while, I see them drop by. Adrienne bought herself a bolt of silk, but it wasn’t as nice as what she had on. Your sisters have been turning heads lately, let me tell you. She’s been keeping close company with that Donald fellow, I might add.”

Emma shivered in revulsion.

“You’re looking well,” Celeste remarked. “Fancy a treat, dearie?”

“Perhaps just a bite. Whatever this will get me.” She dug into her small belt pouch and produced a silver coin. Celeste smiled broadly before taking it. 

“That’ll get you more than a bite.” She handed over a tin of biscuits, lifting the lid. Emma reached in and grabbed two. “Enjoy them. They’re nice and buttery. Let’s fatten you up a bit.”

“Thank you. Celeste, has there been any word on Father?”

Celeste’s smile dropped. She set down the tin behind her and glanced around, then leaned over the edge of the stall, beckoning Emma to come closer so she wouldn’t have to raise her voice.

“Oh, sweetie, it’s dire. Truly. Word around this place is that they’re planning to put your father in the bin.”

“What?” Emma’s chest squeezed.

“The sanitarium,” she clarified, even though it was unnecessary. “They’re going to pronounce your father unfit to give testimony at your brother’s trial.”

“But… but Father… he knows Chris didn’t do it! They can’t dismiss his testimony!”

“Don’t get yourself in a dither, child!”

“They can’t lock him away! Adrienne, or Cordelia or I would have to give our permission and sign for it! They can’t take away his rights!”

“Oh, child…” Celeste’s old, rheumy eyes grew wet. “Don’t you see? Your sisters have given their permission. They’ve signed the admission order already. I overheard them the other day when I went to the Trident for a spot of wine. Adrienne was with Donald, boasting that Winston…”

She stopped, trying to muster some control over her emotions.

“Boasting about what, Celeste?” Emma felt like she swallowed a stone.

“That your father isn’t their problem, anymore. And, neither is your brother. Oh, child, I’m so sorry.”

*

 

Ororo allowed herself a short bath out in the lake, and she summoned gusting winds to dry her hair and fur before she went back inside. 

“Would you like me to braid your hair, Mistress?”

“Please, Marie.” She sat at the vanity, and the tiny monkey hopped up alongside her and began to brush her long tangles of hair.

“It’s been a long time since you’ve let me, Wind-Rider.”

“Once in a while, it’s good to look one’s best.” Ororo didn’t wince when she worked out the snarls. “I’d like to make a certain impression, darling.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will, mademoiselle,” she sighed. Within minutes, Ororo’s hair hung in a neat, snug plait down her back. Then she stood before the armoire and selected a dress of opulent, simple black velvet, one of the first that she’d worn in years. She cut the openings she needed in the back of it to allow for her wings. Santo lumbered forward, with a pair of short women’s boots clutched in his maw. She thanked him and put them on, satisfied with how they fit. 

“Jewels?” Jenny suggested.

“Mother’s ruby,” she said. 

“A splendid choice.”

“I want to feel her close to me, today.”

Jenny fetched her the ruby brooch from the jewelry chest. Ororo pinned it deftly to her bodice, touching the glittering stone for luck.

“Do you think you can bring her home, Mistress?” Jenny asked. Her voice sounded doubtful at best.

“It’s either that, or I won’t return at all. You’ll know why. Time is of the essence.”

Because throughout the night, the white rose petals had continued to fall. There were scant few left.

*

 

Christian woke from his stupor, unsure of what time it was; the light streaming in through his cell’s bars told it him it was likely afternoon. He heard a loud scuffle of feet and the clanging of metal, or a key sliding into a lock. “Who’s there?” he called out.

“CHRISTIAN!”

“Quiet, you!”

“Jean-Paul?!” Christian stirred from his cot, rolling with difficulty to sit up. “Jean?! JEAN-PAUL!”

“CHRIS!” His voice sounded haggard but relieved to hear him, but the loud, striking sound told Christian that the guards weren’t pleased with their attempt at a reunion.

“Here, then. Have at ‘im. There’s yer lover boy,” the guard teased as they approached Christian’s cell. “Mr. Shaw decided to grant you a favor, Frost. You’ll get the chance to reacquaint yerselves before yer strung up after the trial. Isn’t that nice?” Christian barely felt himself stand and propel himself toward the door, but when the guard opened it, he lunged inside and shoved Christian back, cuffing him across the jaw. “Stay down, you bastard!” Christian reeled, slumped over and bleeding from his cut lip. His previous wound opened up, never having the chance to heal, but he didn’t care. Jean-Paul looked anguished and similarly battered, and his prison clothing was torn. But his eyes filled with tears at the sight of him, before the other guard kicked him inside the cell, sending him sprawling. Christian gathered him close with a small, choked cry. That was Jean-Paul; he wasn’t hallucinating him, his scent, his soft, disheveled hair or his broken sobs, or how warm and solid he felt against him when he pulled him into his arms.

“Jean-Paul,” he sobbed. “Not you. You shouldn’t be here…”

“Neither should you,” he told him. His fingers dug into Christian’s back, and he felt Christian’s hot tears land on his neck. “It was Shaw. He ordered this.”

“I know, I know!”

“Enjoy yourselves, boys,” the guard jeered. “Trial’s in two hours.”

Christian’s heart sank. The cold pall of impending doom made him sweat and shiver, but he clung to Jean-Paul. Every moment with him just grew a thousand times more precious.

“I’ve missed you,” Jean-Paul croaked. “Missed you. Worried for you.”

“I feared I would never see you again. I’m so sorry. So sorry. It’s all my fault. Never should have gambled against Shaw… you shouldn’t be here.”

“Don’t. Don’t think about that now.”

“Don’t think about it?” Chris scoffed. “You’re here because of me! Jeanne-Marie will be left alone! You could die along with me, Jean!”

“You’d leave me behind to live a life without you?” Jean-Paul’s laugh was muffled and slightly hysterical. “That’s no life at all, you idiot. You’re my life, Chris.”

“No, no, don’t…”

“You are. You are, you stupid bastard. I love you.”

Christian stopped arguing and just held him on the cold floor of the cell. After a while, they composed themselves and talked, sharing quiet, more pleasant memories and listening to each other’s heartbeats.

 

*

The crowd gathered outside the courthouse, chattering and grumbling as the constable posted the sign outside announcing the case and listing the accused. His hammer rapped sharply against the nail as he posted it, and he told them, “Step lively, now. There’s not room enough for all of you. If you have to wait outside, then so be it.”

“Let me through! LET ME THROUGH!” Emma called out as she tried to force her way past the onlookers, some of whom glared at her balefully and tried to shove her back.

“Don’t be impertinent! Quit yer shovin’, miss!”

“That’s my brother! I have to be there for him!”

The constable overheard and held up his hand for the crowd to calm down. He beckoned to her, wading through the crowd. “You’re kin to him, dear?”

“I’m Emma Grace Frost,” she shouted to him, “and my brother stands wrongfully accused today!” The crowd murmured loudly and stared at her, the lovely girl in peasant’s garb who looked like she shirked her chores to attend the trial. Her fierce blue eyes bore into the constable’s as she approached, and her posture was proud as she climbed the steps.

“We’ll see, miss. We’ll see.”

“My brother is innocent. I mean to see that he is released from your custody, sir.”

“That’s up to the jury and the judge, Miss Frost.” He waved her inside, and he escorted her to the front of the courtroom. Emma sat down, nodding to the other visitors along the bench. They eyed her curiously, but she ignored them while the rest of the seats filled. She regretted the biscuits Celeste sold her; her stomach felt knotted and sour.

She felt him before she saw him enter the chamber. Emma’s eyes widened, and she tensed in her seat. _Christian_. His thoughts were resigned. As though he had completely given up. Her first taste of his emotions made her feel faint with their proximity and intensity. So much sadness. Worse, he thought he’d been _abandoned_.  Emma’s eyes burned. “I’m here, big brother,” Emma whispered. “It’s all right.” She exhaled slowly and centered herself before she did a psychic sweep of the room. She recognized the thoughts of some of the vendors she knew, as well as their neighbors from nearby farms, and some of her father’s friends, fellow merchants whose ships managed not to meet with disaster. None of them helped Winston to get back on his feet, despite favorable, profitable dealings with them, but Emma didn’t have the energy to feel resentment toward them. They’d made do, hadn’t they? They managed a farm on not much more than a prayer. 

Then, Emma felt the presence of her sisters, out on the steps. They were sharp and haughty with the constable.

“Let us through. Don’t make us wander around out here among the riff-raff.” That was Cordelia. Emma sighed in exasperation. She hardly sounded like she was concerned about the outcome of the trial.

“Don’t compound this unpleasantness. Let us in, you ignoramus.” Adrienne was in rare form. Her thoughts were bitter and hard, and Emma found that she truly hadn’t missed her sisters, even though they were her only family, and would continue to be if Christian’s name wasn’t cleared of the crime. That future was bleak, indeed.

“Emma should be here instead,” Adrienne muttered, loudly enough for Emma to hear as she came down the aisle.

“Quiet,” Cordelia chided. “Don’t make them think you don’t care. People are listening.” Cordelia nodded and smiled coolly as they swept past. Both of them wore day gowns made of fine linens, richly embroidered and trimmed in ribbons. 

“Oh, I’m sure they’ve realized that you don’t, by now,” Emma purred as they approached. “Good afternoon, sisters. Have you missed me?”

Bitterness formed a hard pit in Emma’s stomach, and she tasted bile when she looked at them. Their smiles faded, and confusion shone in their eyes.

“Emma Grace,” Cordelia murmured. “What… how are you…?”

“You’ve managed to join us,” Adrienne mused. Her tone was hard and smug. “How nice.”

“Move,” Cordelia told the visitors who flanked Emma on the bench. “We are family. Let us sit with our sister.”

“We haven’t seen her in so long,” Adrienne added. She waited for them to get up, and they were disgruntled, but they moved along. Emma sat, fuming, and Adrienne slid into the narrow space. She hovered over Emma and opened her arms. “What? No hug for your beloved sister?”

Emma’s face was pale with anger, except for two spots of color in her cheeks. But she stood, calmly, and allowed the embrace.

_I know what you did to Father._

Emma transmitted those thoughts with force, and Adrienne gasped. Her sister released her hastily and backed up. Cordelia just stared. Then, she told her, “How kind of you to be here for Christian, dear.”

“Nothing could keep me from it.”

 

　


End file.
